


Withered Lungs

by Arwriter



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Arthur Whump, Brotherly Love, Brothers, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Family, Hurt/Comfort, I fixed it, I lied I didn't fix it I think I made it worse, People actually care au, Protective Dutch, Protective Hosea, Sickness, TB except its not completely awful, hurt Arthur, tuberculosis
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-25
Updated: 2019-06-22
Packaged: 2020-03-17 08:39:42
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 12
Words: 41,387
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18961744
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arwriter/pseuds/Arwriter
Summary: Arthur doesn't want to die, not when his family needs him most, not when things are finally good again. But if death is inevitable, he knows he doesn't want to die alone.





	1. Chapter 1

Hosea had almost stopped believing things could be good again. There had been too much death in the past few months, too much tension, too many problems to outrun. 

The mess they’d made in Valentine had sent them running, again, deeper and deeper into unknown territory. 

Micah had been hanged in Strawberry, and while Arthur had no great love for the man, Hosea knew he couldn’t help but feel guilty after arriving to the gallows moments too late. 

Hosea couldn’t quite bring himself to mourn. The man was a menace, bringing bad energy and unnecessary problems wherever he went, but Dutch had insisted on a burial, grieving for the loss of a talented gunslinger. They needed all the power they could get with what was coming, and yet another death had just made the world feel colder. 

But now, with the open water rippling beneath them, watching Dutch tilt his head back in genuine laughter, reliving stories of his past, Hosea thought there still might be hope for them. For the family they’d created. 

It had been too long since he’d felt anything but fondness when he looked at Dutch, too long since he’d heard the man’s laughter. 

And it felt like a lifetime since he’d seen Arthur smile. Even with the mention of Dutch’s mother, buried in the town that had nearly ripped them apart, the air remained light, conversation easy. 

It was how it used to be. Nothing in the world mattered but the three of them, not the gang, not the law, not empty promises for a perfect future. Just the three of them, family, alive and together until the end. 

“Dear god,” Arthur groaned, Dutch’s hearty laughter once again filling the peaceful air. “I might swim to shore.” 

His voice broke with a cough, sudden and violent as it ripped from his chest, Arthur’s eyes squeezing shut as he buried his face in his sleeve and nearly lost his grip on the fishing pole. 

Dutch laughed, smacking Arthur on the back, grinning as the younger man worked on clearing his throat. “You alright, there?” 

Arthur nodded, still hunched over himself as he slowly pulled his arm away, blinking at the swaying boat. Hosea grinned, watching as Dutch gave his back another pat, turning his focus to the lake. 

“He’s getting old,” Hosea said, smiling at Dutch’s snicker. “How about you let us row back to shore?” 

He waited for Arthur’s retort, for the younger man to insist he was fine, even for another jibe at Hosea’s age. But the only response was another cough, worse than the first, followed by another. 

“Jesus,” Dutch muttered, one hand on Arthur’s back, the other pulling the fishing rod from the water. “You ok?” 

The coughing didn’t stop, only growing louder and more ragged, Arthur’s face turning a deep red as his legs began to wobble. 

Hosea’s panic spiked when Arthur shook his head, clutching his chest as he dropped to his knees, nearly tipping the boat over when he fell. 

Dutch had moved his other hand to Arthur’s shoulder, keeping him as steady as possible, wide-eyed and frantic as the younger man doubled over in pain, breaths replaced by wheezes in between worsening coughs. 

“Easy, Arthur,” Dutch tried while Hosea steadied the wobbling boat. “Breathe, son, just--oh god, there’s blood! Hosea, he’s coughing up  _ blood.”  _

Hosea’s heart dropped, finally turning his full attention to the scene in front of him, briefly meeting Dutch’s panicked eyes. Sure enough, Arthur’s chin and lips were decorated with speckles of dark crimson. 

Arthur’s own eyes were wide and red, tears streaming down his face as the wheezes turned to chokes and gasps, his entire body shuddering at the force of each cough stealing his breath. 

He reached out, blindly, gripping Dutch’s wrist as he fought and struggled for air. 

“What do we do?” Dutch asked, urgently, holding him steady as Arthur started to slouch. “I don’t--what do we--?” 

“Get us back to camp,” Hosea said, carefully moving to kneel beside Arthur. He didn’t trust himself to row as fast as the other man, not with the way his hands were shaking. “Let me take him.” 

Dutch did as he was told, prying his arm from Arthur’s grip as he stood. “What about--what about the boat--?”

“Forget about the fucking  _ boat, _ Dutch, he can’t  _ breathe!”  _

Hosea knew Dutch was just as terrified as he was, mind running wild, panicked and scattered as they both tried to figure out what they were supposed to do. 

Arthur had been fine less than five minutes ago. A little tired from his chase with runaway criminals, but it was nothing he couldn’t handle. 

The boat lurched forward, Dutch silently rowing them towards their new camp, constantly sending worried glances over his shoulder. 

“You’re ok, Arthur,” Hosea promised, unable to believe his own desperate reassurances. “Try and breathe. Take a breath for me, son.” 

Arthur just coughed again, body convulsing under the attack. He turned his head away from Hosea, blood spraying from his mouth, splattering against the wood. 

“It’s ok.” Hosea reached for his satchel, fingers finding his wadded up handkerchief, unfurling it to press it gently to Arthur’s mouth, wiping the blood from his lips. “You’re ok.” 

It took too long to make it back to camp, a painful eternity compared to the easy ride out to the water. Arthur weaved in and out of consciousness, breathing obscured by the horrible, jagged coughs, Hosea helpless to do anything but hold him tighter. 

The boat was finally yanked to a stop, sliding onto the wet grass of the camp’s shore, and Dutch was already moving back to Arthur’s side. 

“What’s happening?” he demanded, furious. “Jesus, Hosea! What’s  _ wrong  _ with him?” 

Hosea flinched at the anger in the other man’s tone, fully aware it was simply a coverup for his blind terror. But he had no answer, only able to shake his head and work on getting an almost unconscious Arthur to stand. 

“I don’t know,” he admitted, pulling one of Arthur’s arms over his own shoulders. “Help me get him to his tent.” 

They each pressed up against one of Arthur’s sides, practically dragging him out of the boat and across the grass, flinching each time Arthur coughed, drops of blood staining the ground. 

“You’re fine, Arthur,” Dutch said, quietly repeating his reassuring words. “It’ll be ok, you can rest in a minute. We’re almost there.” 

Arthur didn’t respond, didn’t give any sign that he could even hear, head hanging limply against his chest, still struggling to get in a single breath. 

It wasn’t long until Hosea felt eyes on them, quiet gasps and mumbles, followed quickly by footsteps and panicked voices the closer they got to the tent. 

“Arthur?” 

“Oh my god! What happened?” 

“What’s wrong with Morgan?” 

The girls were moving to crowd around them, the men moving to watch a few paces away, the entire camp’s worry making Hosea’s head spin. 

But Dutch had always been able to mask his own panic under the scrutiny of others, Hosea the only person who knew how to see beyond the facade. 

“He’s fine!” Dutch insisted, waving the onlookers away with his free hand. “Get out of here! Go on, don’t crowd him! Mr. Morgan is just fine.” 

The last part was said mostly for himself, voice trembling at the end, and the two men quickened their pace to Arthur’s tent. 

They finally managed to lay Arthur down on his cot, the younger man’s eyes still closed, every few small breaths still overpowered with ragged coughs. 

Dutch crouched beside the bed to clutch Arthur’s hand, brushing back the hair plastered to his forehead, while Hosea found himself taking in just how awful he suddenly looked. 

His skin was dangerously pale, coated in sweat, and peeling his eyes opened revealed just how red and watery they were. 

“Dutch?” 

The attack seemed to be subsiding, Arthur gasping and choking for each unsteady breath, clearing his throat and wincing against obvious pain. 

“I’m here,” Dutch promised, squeezing his hand. “Don’t try to talk yet. Focus on breathing. You’ll be ok.” 

Arthur managed a small nod, doing as he was told, eyes falling shut again as he worked to breathe around the rattles in his chest. 

Hosea turned at the sound of footsteps, meeting Miss Grimshaw’s worried eyes as he handed over a bucket of water and a clean rag. 

“Thank you, Susan.” 

She nodded, moving to sit at the end of Arthur’s bed while Hosea carefully kneeled at his other side, Dutch barely seeming to register the woman’s presence. 

He dipped one end of the rag into the warm water, leaning forward to press the towel against Arthur’s forehead, smiling when his eyes fluttered open. 

“Hosea?” his voice was nothing more than a weak croak, eyes watering when he spoke. “Wh-what--?” 

“You’re sick, son,” Hosea explained, gently wiping Arthur’s forehead. “Just rest. We’ll take care of it.” 

Arthur furrowed his brow, visibly confused, but the warm touch of the wet rag seemed to set him at ease. He cleared his throat again, let out a shuddering breath, and let his eyes close. 

The tent fell silent, Dutch’s eyes glued on Arthur’s sickly face, never loosening the hold on his hand. Miss Grimshaw watched them both, only daring to speak when Hosea dropped the rag into the bucket. 

“What happened?” 

Hosea shook his head, staring down at his hands. “I don’t...he was fine. He was  _ fine,  _ Susan. And then he just...started coughing up blood and--” 

“He’s sick,” Dutch said, curtly. “That’s all. He must’ve caught something up in those mountains. That weather was bound to get to someone.” 

Hosea frowned, sharing a worried glance with Miss Grimshaw, hating the cold dread gnawing at his heart. It had been weeks since they’d moved from Colter. If Arthur was going to get sick from the cold, it should have already happened. 

“Dutch, he...he was coughing up blood.” 

“He needs to rest,” Dutch said, eyes never moving from Arthur’s slack face. “He’s just got a bad cough. If it gets worse, we’ll take him to a doctor and get some medicine.”

Miss Grimshaw stood, tugging at her skirt as she carefully backed towards the exit, still watching Dutch sadly, chewing on her lip. 

“I’ll...I’ll go see if we have anything to help with the pain. You two just stay with him until he wakes up.” 

And with that she stepped into camp, barking orders, the other gang members dispersing, their voices fading into quiet, worried muttering.

Hosea settled himself at Arthur’s other side, leaned against the bedside table, gaze dropping to the blood-stained handkerchief in his hands, listening to the weak breaths from the bed. 

“He’ll be fine.” 

His head snapped up at the sound of Dutch’s voice, broken and scared, still stubborn and determined. 

“I know,” Hosea said, unable to believe anything else. “He always is.” 

 


	2. Chapter 2

Arthur pressed his face into the pillow, holding his breath, chest on fire as he did all he could to stifle the fresh waves of coughs tearing through his weakened body. 

Dutch and Hosea hadn’t left him alone in days, each cough or involuntary groan sending them into a panic, forcing him to stay cooped up in his tent like he was dying, treating him like a sick child. 

It was the first time since being dragged back to camp that he’d had the energy to get out of bed, but if someone heard him so much as clear his throat he’d be sent right back to his cot. 

When he was finally able to get a proper breath, chest still tight and aching, Arthur carefully pushed himself up, wincing when his clothes stuck to his clammy skin. The world tilted, darkening, head pounding as he forced himself to his feet. 

It took a moment for everything to steady, another for him to catch his breath, finally peeling back the tent to step outside. The sunlight made his eyes water, and he quickly wiped away the gathering tears with his sleeve. 

The smell of coffee was wafting into the air, inviting and familiar, and Arthur tried not to think about how shaky his legs were as he made his way to the pot. 

Dutch and Hosea were planted right outside Dutch’s tent, talking quietly, mugs in hand. Arthur kept his head low, watching the two men out of the corner of his eye.

As soon as he saw him, Dutch started forward, no doubt prepared to drag Arthur right back to bed, but Hosea reached out to grab his arm and pull him back, Arthur breathing a sigh of relief. 

He knew Dutch had only good intentions, his actions coming from a place of genuine worry, but he desperately needed the space. The coughs were suffocating enough, he didn’t need to be coddled every second of the day. 

And he was  _ fine.  _ He’d been trying to tell Dutch that ever since he’d regained the ability to talk without choking on another cough, arguing against concern the only thing keeping his own uneasiness at bay. 

He rarely grew ill, even with how hard he tended to work himself, and he couldn’t remember a time he’d had a cough this painful, little movements weakening him unnaturally fast. 

But he supposed it was bound to happen eventually. With the mountain’s brutal weather, the constant traveling, and the crippling stress on everyone’s shoulders, his body would need a rest sooner or later. 

Arthur just hoped this was the worst of it. The sooner he didn’t have to fight for each rattling breath, the sooner he could get back to work and escape the worried glances everyone insisted on flashing him. 

“Morning,” John muttered, visibly trying to hide his curiosity as he handed Arthur a mug. “How’re you feeling?” 

“Fine,” Arthur said, clearing his throat and pouring himself a cup of the steaming liquid. “Think all that traveling just finally caught up to me.” 

John hummed, hiding his expression behind his own cup as he drank. “Well, it’s good to see you feeling better.” 

Arthur never got a chance to respond. It felt like his throat was on fire the moment he tried to swallow, set aflame by the once soothing drink, no longer able to hold back the furious fit of wet hacks and coughs, spitting and wheezing as he choked on his coffee. 

“Arthur?” 

He could barely hear John, his ears ringing unbearably, everything drowned out by the violent coughs spreading through his body, wrapping his arms around himself as his mug clattered to the ground. 

“Arthur! Jesus, Arthur! Breathe!” 

If Arthur could, he would have told John to shut the hell up, that if he  _ could  _ breathe he  _ would.  _ But the world was spinning, his head and chest feeling like it was being crushed. 

“Arthur!” 

There were hands on his back and shoulders, faces swimming in and out of focus, voices too distant yet too loud. 

It felt like hours, each cough sucking away his strength little by little, sending him spiraling into a dark hole of pain, the rest of the world fading. 

“Son?” But finally the coughs started to subside, allowing him to take his first breath, small and shaky, and his head began to clear. “Can you hear me?” 

It was Dutch, crouched right in front of him, voice raised to a panicked yell, and Arthur flinched as everything came back in an overwhelming blur. 

“There you go. Look at me, ok? Breathe with me, come on. In and out. Copy me, Arthur. Watch my breathing.”

He didn’t even have to energy to feel embarrassed or ashamed, to focus on the surrounding, watchful eyes. All his attention was on Dutch, on slowing the painful fight for air into easy, regular breathing. 

“Easy,” someone else said from behind him. If every little noise wasn’t threatening to send him back to the mercy of a coughing fit, Arthur would have groaned when he recognized John. “Jesus, Arthur.” 

“Well, that settles it,” Dutch announced, closing a hand around Arthur’s arm. “We’re taking him to a doctor.” 

“I’m--” he broke off with another cough, fighting to steady himself around the pain. He spit into the grass, wincing when he saw the drops of red. “I--I’m fine.” 

“Bullshit, you need help.” Dutch pulled away, gaze moving to something above Arthur. “John, go help Miss Grimshaw get a wagon ready.”

Arthur cleared his throat, blinking rapidly as his surroundings gradually came back to him, face wet and stinging. “We don’t need--” 

“Arthur, don’t be stupid,” Hosea spoke up, suddenly crouched at his other side. “You ain’t getting on a horse like this.” 

He wanted to argue, to tell them they were all overreacting, that a doctor would offer nothing they couldn’t do here. He was exhausted, all his strength taken in a matter of moments. He just wanted to crawl back to his bed and sleep for another week. 

But Arthur didn’t have the energy to keep arguing, simply allowing himself to be carefully pulled to his feet and dragged across camp, Dutch and Hosea once again leading him forward. 

He hated it. He hated how weak he was, even after two days of rest, rendered drained and almost useless by a bad cough. 

At some point Javier and Lenny, still wisely keeping their distance, asked if they needed help getting Arthur to the wagon. Hosea had the decency to send the men to gather more supplies, probably able to feel Arthur’s shame radiating off him. 

“Come on.” Hosea held his arm as they both climbed into the back of the wagon, Miss Grimshaw hurrying around to toss in spare blankets. “I’ll be back here with you. Just in case you need anything.” 

He could breathe again, despite the aching in his chest, but Arthur could already feel his eyes slipping shut. He was sure he could manage to ride a horse, but he wouldn’t trust himself not to fall asleep in the saddle. 

“I should come with you,” Miss Grimshaw said, hovering at the back of the wagon. Hosea smiled, shaking his head. 

“I can’t imagine what would happen to this place if you left,” he said. “We’ll be fine on our own.” 

“I’m going.” 

If he could, he would have rolled his eyes at John’s voice and told the kid to mind his own damn business. He didn’t need everyone to follow him around like he would keel over at any moment. 

But Hosea took little convincing, nodding as he leaned Arthur against the wall. “Sit with Dutch, then.” 

Arthur closed his eyes, trying to block everything out. Their new camp was right outside Rhodes, and he could probably make the short trip on his own, pick up medicine for his cough, making it back home before dinner. 

But there was nothing he could do, no way to deter the stubbornness of his family. Not when he barely had the strength to raise his head. 

“Try to relax, Arthur,” Hosea said fondly. “We’ll get you some help as soon as we can.” 

Arthur didn’t respond, letting the exhaustion take over as the wagon lurched forward, drifting off to the sound of the horses leaving camp. 

  
  


He couldn’t have been asleep for long. It only felt like a heartbeat since he’d closed his eyes, feeling only more drained as he was jolted awake. 

Arthur barely had time to dwell on how awful he felt, before his breath hitched in his burning throat and he was assaulted by another ruthless fit of coughing. 

His eyes flew open as he choked, rolling over onto his side, staining his sleeve red when he moved to cover his mouth. He thought the wagon might have been pulled to a stop, thought he heard yells and panicked shouts, but it was impossible to tell. 

There were hands on his shoulders, moving to rub circles along his back, any words of comfort or panic lost to the hacks and wheezes filling the wagon. 

He heard someone yelling, distant and muffled, and Arthur thought it might be Dutch. But for once he didn't have the time to worry about the other man, to dwell on the problems and fear he was causing. 

He couldn’t  _ breathe,  _ chest constricting with each cough, tightening with each agonizing pound of his heart. 

And then he was being lifted, hands hooking under his shoulders, dragging him away from the blankets and into the stuffy, humid air of Rhodes. 

Arthur hadn’t liked the town since the minute he’d rode in with the Deputy, distrustful, no matter how convinced Dutch was that the families would make them rich. 

The people were cold and unwelcoming, the type to be miserable and sour every day of their lives, constantly complaining without doing a thing to change. 

And the swirling dust plaguing and swirling in the air was doing nothing to help him catch his breath. 

The floor creaked beneath him, people he still couldn’t recognize guiding him forward, the thin air suddenly becoming warm and almost breathable as they pushed him inside. 

“This way, sir.” Voices were just beginning to filter back in, noises coming in small, piercing bursts. “Right in here.” 

He was being pushed down by his shoulders, leaned back against a chair, struggling to pull in shuddering gasps as he worked to get the coughing under control, suddenly weary enough to fall back asleep right then and there. 

“Hey.” Dutch was in front of him, leaned over the chair,  brow pinched in gentle concern. “You with us, son?” 

Arthur nodded, weak and pathetic. He felt hot and sweaty, his clothes clinging to his skin as he shifted in the strange padded chair. 

“Good,” an unfamiliar voice said, a dark-haired man in a suit stepping towards him. “Now, why don’t you tell me what’s wrong?” 

Dutch replied before Arthur even had the chance to open his mouth. “I think you can  _ hear  _ what’s  _ wrong.”  _

“Dutch,” Hosea warned, he and John planted at the other end of the room, just close enough for Arthur to see. “Tell him your symptoms, Arthur.” 

He nodded, clearing his throat once more into his stained sleeve. “I’ve...I’ve been coughing. Just been getting worse.” 

“How long?” the doctor asked. 

“A couple weeks.” At Dutch and Hosea’s raised eyebrows, Arthur quickly shrugged. “It hasn’t been this bad.” 

“Is there blood?”

Arthur shrugged again, hating the eyes on him, looking over the man’s shoulder to stare at the wall. “Sometimes--” 

_ “Yes,”  _ Dutch corrected, tone leaving no room for argument. “There’s blood.” 

The doctor muttered to himself, leaning in to examine Arthur’s face, shining something in his eyes. He moved back to press something against his chest, instructing the younger man to breathe deeply. 

Arthur did as he was told, hating the cold discomfort it brought, grimacing at the rattles coming from his rising chest. 

The doctor frowned, stepping back, biting his lip nervously as he studied his patient. The look in his eyes was far from comforting. 

“What?” Dutch demanded, once again masking his concern with unjustifiable anger. The doctor only shook his head, producing a small, flat stick from his desk. 

“Let me see your tongue.” 

Uneasily, Arthur obeyed and opened his mouth, the stick pressed tightly against his tongue as the strange man leaned in uncomfortably close. 

Arthur stared straight ahead, holding his breath, finding his gaze locked onto John, the younger man sending him a gentle smile. 

The doctor finally pulled away, giving Arthur room to breathe as much as his lungs would allow, but the wary glances from him to Dutch made Arthur’s blood run cold. 

“What is it?” he asked, swallowing against the scratchiness of his weak voice. There was a hand on his shoulder, Dutch squeezing gently, keeping him breathing. 

The doctor sighed, quiet as he moved to the sink to rinse his hands, shoulders dropping when he finally turned back around. 

“You’ve got Tuberculosis.” 

And that was when Arthur stopped listening. It was like he’d been dunked under ice water, the world screeching to a stop, the room drenched in heavy silence. 

He was fairly sure he was the only one who’s world had stopped, but the others reacted like it was their lives that had just been put to an end. 

The first thing that broke through the initial haze of shock was Dutch’s voice, loud and angry, the hold on Arthur’s shoulder loosening. 

“What the hell do you mean?” 

“I mean he’s sick,” the doctor said, turning back to Arthur, sickening pity laced in his tone. “I’m real sorry, son. It’s...it’s a hell of a thing.” 

“But what can we  _ do?”  _ It was John’s voice this time, everything still dream-like and unreal. 

The man sighed, his regret probably far from genuine. He did a hell of a job at pretending. “There isn’t much  _ to  _ do. The best thing for him is rest. And staying somewhere warm and dry. But…” 

_ “But?”  _ Dutch echoed, bristling at Arthur’s side. He risked a glance in the other man’s direction, noting the clenched fists and paled face. 

“You’ll...he’ll be…” the doctor trailed off, watching Dutch like the man might strike him. “I’m very sorry, sir. Like I said, it’s a hell of a thing.” 

Arthur wasn’t sure what else he had been expecting. A part of him was waiting to wake up, for the whole thing to be revealed as a horrible nightmare, the creation of the simple fever he’d managed to accumulate. 

But the other part of him knew this was real. It was just another harsh reminder of the world’s brutality, the unfair suddenness of death. 

And truthfully, he wasn’t even sure how he was supposed to react. He knew there was something expected of him, a certain emotional response he was supposed to have, something he was supposed to be feeling. 

Dutch was angry, he was furious, taking it out on whoever was in front of him. John was panicked, miserably failing at hiding his own fear. 

Hosea was expressionless. Blank. Arthur thought he understood that reaction best. 

Because there really was no good way for him to take the news. Getting angry wouldn’t make the doctor take back his diagnosis. Panicking wouldn’t help, wouldn’t change how this would all end. 

Everyone died eventually. Men like him often sooner rather than later. This just happened to be the end to his story. 

He would have preferred a bullet. Something quick and sudden, in the midst of battle, no true warning to when it would all collapse around him. 

This way, it would happen slow. Slow and painful, no way to know when he would take his last breath. He’d seen plenty of sick men, and some lasted longer than others. Maybe it was pure luck, but Arthur doubted working men under stress and poverty lasted very long. That debtor, Thomas Downes, had been nearly gone when he’d--

Oh. Somehow the realization was worse than the news of his own demise, the new wave of guilt and fear worse than the initial shock. 

Well, at least this way he would deserve the death he’d brought upon himself. He’d killed himself beating a man to death for a few bucks that hadn’t even made a difference. 

“No,” Dutch said, still angry, still in denial, fighting to win back the control he’d lost. “No, no, there’s more we can do for him. What else can we do?” 

“There’s nothing I--”

_ “Bullshit!”  _ Dutch’s voice was loud enough for the people on the street to hear, and Arthur flinched. “You’re a goddamn doctor, aren’t you? So  _ help  _ him!” 

“Dutch,” Hosea tried, the first thing Arthur had heard him say, quiet and pained compared to Dutch’s brash desperation. 

But the other man was far past listening, too far gone in the denial of his own grief. “He’ll be ok. You hear me, Arthur? You’ll be fine. He’s going to be fine because  _ you’re  _ going to fix him.” 

“Sir, I can’t--” 

“Don’t tell me that shit,” Dutch snapped. “Don’t you fucking dare tell me that, I swear to  _ god.”  _

Somehow, Arthur had managed to stay stoic and silent, keeping his own thoughts to himself, processing the news in the safety of his mind. 

But Dutch’s outburst- his inability or refusal to hide his own pain- made everything worse. The shakiness in his usually steady voice made the hurt almost suffocating, Arthur’s chest feeling tight. And this time, it wasn’t from the sickness. 

He would be the one to die, but his death would end up killing the people in this room. And Dutch had made it very clear he wouldn’t be able to accept it. He wouldn’t cope with the loss, and there was nothing that could be done. 

The room began to waver, growing blurry, and it took Arthur’s detached mind a moment to notice the tears rolling down his cheeks. 

He didn’t even bother to wipe them away, weighed down by his own exhaustion. 

And yet, Dutch  _ still  _ wasn’t done. 

“Tell me what to do,” he demanded. “Please, tell me what we can do. We need to fix him, we  _ have  _ to fix him!” 

_ Fix.  _ Like he was broken. Like the sickness had eaten away everything valuable. Like he was already only a fragment of the man he once was. Because his lungs were withering away, he wasn’t the son Dutch had once had. 

_ “Dutch.”  _

Hosea’s voice finally seemed to get through to him, Dutch turning to the older man, eyes shining with his own unshed tears. 

It looked like he was about to keep arguing, keep screaming useless demands that wouldn’t change a thing. But he fell silent, following Hosea’s gaze to Arthur, silently crying in the chair where he’d been told he would die. Where a man had looked him in the eyes and told him how his story would end, delivering the news like it was common. 

And Arthur knew it was. To the doctor, these men were no different than countless others. Arthur was just a patient, doomed like every other man in the world. 

“Why don’t you step outside for a moment, sir?” the man offered, sympathetic, pretending to understand the grief he couldn’t grasp. He never would, Arthur’s fate determined in a town that couldn’t even learn his real name. 

Dutch opened his mouth, closing it again when no words came out, the man with the silver tongue rendered speechless. 

He was trembling, hands shaking, even more distraught than the dying man. Dutch tore his gaze away from Arthur, pressing an unsteady hand to his mouth, turning away from the watching men. 

Arthur had just managed to find his voice again, forcing himself to talk around the lump in his throat. But anything he had to say was drowned out by the slamming of the door, Dutch disappearing into the street. 

  
  
  
  
  
  



	3. Chapter 3

 

“I really am sorry.” 

Hosea just nodded, not sure if the words were directed at him or Arthur, starting forward as the younger man worked to push himself to his feet. 

He was still weak, trembling under the strain of his own weight, and John was immediately pushing past Hosea to help. 

“Here.” The doctor was rummaging through one of his drawers, producing a long syringe. “Morphine. It’ll give you a bit more energy for today.” 

When Arthur said nothing, the doctor looked to Hosea, who nodded. The needle was plunged into his arm, but the younger man didn’t even flinch as it sunk into his skin. 

“Come on,” John said when it was pulled away, reaching for Arthur’s arm. “Let me--” 

He pulled away, eyes brimming with a storm of emotions Hosea couldn’t even begin to comprehend. Arthur swallowed, saying nothing as he steadied himself on wobbly legs, turning and stalking to the door where Dutch had disappeared. 

“If he needs anything else,” the doctor said, moving back to his desk. “You know where to find me.” 

Hosea nodded again. “Thank you, doctor.”

John remained where he stood, frozen and stiff, arms held limp against his side. Hosea took him by the shoulder and lead him forward, pushing them both back into the humid air. 

“It’ll be ok,” he promised, the false words keeping his own dark thoughts at bay. “We’ll figure something out.”

“How long...how long can someone live with--?” 

“We’ll figure it out.” 

Hosea let the door shut behind them, traversing the steps, watching as Arthur pulled himself into the driver’s seat of their wagon, John moving forward to help before Hosea could stop him. 

“Do you need--”

“I’m fine,” Arthur snapped, the first words out of his mouth. “Back off, Marston.”

John’s shoulders dropped, but he stepped back without another word, watching. The morphine seemed to have done some good, Arthur managing to make it up by himself, settling into the seat. 

“You should be in the back,” Hosea said. “I don’t know how long the medicine will last. You need to rest.” 

“I ain’t dying  _ today,  _ Hosea” Arthur argued, the nonchalant words like a bullet to his chest. “I can drive. Where’s Dutch?” 

Hosea could only shrug, knowing better than to argue. If this was how Arthur needed to cope, it wasn’t his place to take it from him. But pretending everyone’s lives hadn’t just screeched to a stop would only end up making everything worse. For all of them.  

“I don’t know. Look, Arthur--” 

“You think you can go find him?” Arthur asked, quiet and desperate, but still a clear warning. “I’m ready to get out of here.” 

He sighed, glancing at an uneasy John, finally agreeing with a reluctant nod. They couldn’t pretend nothing had happened forever, but now might not be the best time to bring Arthur out of his shell. 

“Sure,” Hosea agreed. “You two wait here.” 

He didn’t wait to hear any reply or argument from John, scanning the quiet street before ducking into the alleyway. 

It didn’t take long to see the man at the other end, cloaked in the rooftop’s shadows, hand against the wall and head tilted to the ground.

“Dutch,” Hosea called, quickening his pace when there was no movement or response. “Come on. Let’s go home.” 

Dutch stayed where he was, and as Hosea moved closer he could see the blood steadily dripping down his bruised hand, and the dark red mark staining the brick wall. 

“Jesus, what did you do?” 

He was already ripping off his necktie, grabbing Dutch’s bashed hand to wrap up his bleeding knuckles, ignoring the hiss of pain as the cloth was tightened. 

“Dutch--” 

“We have to do something,” he said, pulling his hand to his chest. “What are we supposed to do?”

“I don’t know,” he admitted, poorly concealed anger rising at his own words. Anger at himself, at the world, at Dutch. “But we won’t be able to figure anything out until  _ you  _ stop throwing a tantrum.” 

Dutch froze, like the confusion was washing over the sorrow, rendering him speechless for the second time in one day. 

It only lasted a second, the fury returning with the blink of an eye, the rest of the pent up rage spilling out at once. 

“Tantrum? Are you fucking  _ kidding  _ me, Hosea? Arthur is--” 

“I  _ know.”  _ Hosea took a breath, remembering the hurt in Arthur’s eyes, the effect Dutch’s yelling had on him. “I know, Dutch, I was there. But you had no right to react like  _ that.”  _

“I had no  _ right?”  _

“No, you didn’t!” Dutch hadn’t hit the doctor, but Hosea wouldn’t put it past him to lose control now. “You’re in denial, Dutch. Did you even hear yourself? All you did was make things worse.”

“Worse for  _ who?  _ Arthur?” 

“Yes!” 

Dutch took a step forward, eyes dark and dangerous, still wet with tears of fear and heartbreak. His voice was like ice, the words more painful than any threat or insult. 

“Arthur is dying, Hosea.” 

Hosea didn’t even have time to process the words coming from his own mouth. “No, he’s not. He’s not he...he’s just sick. We’ll figure something out, we always do.” 

“And  _ I’m  _ in denial?” Dutch challenged, incredulous. “You can’t even admit that something’s wrong. You won’t even  _ consider  _ the possibility that he’ll...that he--” 

“That he  _ what?”  _

Hosea didn’t want to hear it, and he knew Dutch didn’t want to say it. Neither could bring themselves to fully accept the idea, even shielded by the veil of their anger. 

“It’s not ok, Hosea,” he said. “But you and Arthur were just...you two were just  _ sitting  _ there like you didn’t even give a shit.”

“That’s not true.” 

“And that doctor--” 

“He was just doing his job.” Hosea reached out, only to be roughly pushed away, just as Arthur had done to John. 

“It’s not fair.” 

It was the first thing out of Dutch’s mouth had hadn’t been accompanied by rage, only fear and regret for the world turned against him. It was like he was the young man Hosea had met all those years ago, determined to have things his way, to keep the few people he cared for safe. 

And over and over again, the world was determined to rip everything away, to tear apart the small family. 

Arthur had been through so much, seen so much bloodshed, survived countless acts of violence and cruelty. So many times they’d almost lost him. And here he was, dying, not from a bullet wound or O’driscolls or even a bloodthirsty animal, but from a common infection in his lungs. 

“I know,” Hosea said, reaching out again, Dutch finally allowing the older man to take his hand. “But this isn’t about us. Not now. It’s about Arthur. We need to stay with him, and we need to stay strong. He won’t make it if we don’t.” 

He felt like a fraud, an imposter, pretending to be someone he wasn’t. He was almost perfectly echoing Dutch’s constant words, demanding strength, asking for faith and blind trust. 

He wondered if Dutch always felt this doubtful of his own promises and reassurances. 

“I don’t...I don’t know if I can--” 

“He’s not going to die.” Dying didn’t mean dead. Not yet. Hosea wouldn’t let it. “We’ll find a way. We won’t lose him.” 

Hosea wondered, if despite the storm of doubts raging in his head, if this was how Dutch felt when promising a new future. Hopeful in spite of everything, refusal for anything different. 

It must have been similar, because it seemed to get through to the other man, something in Dutch’s eyes clearing, squeezing Hosea’s hand. 

“Let’s get him home.” 

  
  


It was clear Arthur and John hadn’t talked, both still silent and unmoving when Hosea returned with Dutch at his side. John was in the back, legs hanging over the edge, and Hosea crawled in after him. 

“Absolutely not,” Dutch said, reaching for the reins in Arthur’s hands. “Move over.” 

Hosea didn’t have to look over to imagine the look in Arthur’s eyes, stomach twisting at Dutch’s words. He didn’t miss how John scowled, shifting uncomfortably. 

“I can drive.” 

“I’m sure you can, son,” Dutch replied, gentle, but hardly encouraging. “Just not today. Give me the reins.” 

There were no more arguments, Arthur silently doing as he was told, the four of them falling into an unsettling quiet as the wagon started forward. Hosea leaned back, resting his head in his hands, finally letting it all sink in. 

They should have realized something was wrong sooner. 

Arthur said he’d had a worsening cough for weeks, enduring it silently, and nobody had even bothered to notice. Not until he’d collapsed, blood rushing from his chin, small breaths coming in awful, panicked wheezes. 

And now he might die, weakened by the sickness eating away at his corrupted lungs. If they’d acted sooner, saving him might have been easier. 

But they hadn’t, and this was what they had to work with. It didn’t matter. Arthur was still alive, still breathing to the best of his ability, and they would still save his life. 

“Get down!” 

Hosea wasn’t even sure who yelled, wasn’t given time to react before a gunshot rang out, the horses letting out awful screams as the wagon veered to the right. 

He wasn’t even given a chance to look to John before another shot fired, the wagon tipping on its side and crashing to the ground. The horses fell, and only one worked on getting back up. 

Hosea’s shoulder hit the dirt, wincing when he heard John cry out, the younger man’s side slammed up against the toppled wood. 

They were both already reaching for their weapons, hurrying forward to press themselves against the wagon for cover, Hosea scanning the field for the two men thrown from the driver’s seat. 

He couldn’t see them from where he was crouched, but it wasn’t long until he heard the achingly familiar coughing, followed quickly by uncontrollable gasps as Arthur struggled for a breath. 

“Sorry about the wagon, folks!” 

Hosea tensed at the new voices, daring to peek over the edge of his cover, hopefully still hidden to the approaching men. 

There were four of them, dirt-stained and grinning, decorated with matching yellow bandanas. Their eyes were drawn to something on the ground, paying no mind to the rest of the destroyed wagon.  

The coughing was just beginning to subside, still wet and ragged. Hosea’s world went red when a few of the men snickered. 

“You don’t sound so good,” one of them said, laughing as he crouched down, nearly hidden from Hosea’s view. “And these are dangerous roads, partner.” 

“My friend here is sick,” Dutch said, voice loud and clear, still out of sight. “We have nothing of value to offer, I assure you--” 

“Ain’t seen you folks around here before,” another bandit said. “This land belongs to the Lemoyne Raiders. Gotta make sure you learn your place.” 

“And we’ve learned it. You’ll have no trouble from us, sir. Now if you’ll let us be on our way--”

“Lemoyne ain’t got no place for folk like you,” the crouched raider sneered. “We don’t like newcomers. And we don’t like wastes of space coughing all over our useful men.”  

Hosea inches closer, hands trembling under the grip of his gun, finally able to make out the scene in front of him. 

Arthur was on the ground, hunched over with a hand on his chest, head angled to glare at the man crouched in front of him, condescending smile plastered on the bandit’s face. 

Dutch was a few paces away, on his knees with his hands raised, watching the armed men surrounding him. Hosea was sure he was the only one who could recognize the barely controlled rage in his eyes, the promise of bloodshed in his words. 

“You’ve already destroyed our wagon,” Dutch said, slow and unnerved. “We have nothing more for you. Just let us be on our way.” 

The raider grinned, amused, looking from Dutch to Arthur. “You come onto  _ our  _ land, refuse to pay our tolls, drag diseased deadweight through our fields and expect us to let you  _ go?”  _

John tensed, finger moving to the trigger, and Hosea quickly reached out an arm to steady him, shaking his head. 

“You can check the back,” Dutch said, a silent warning. “But I promise you, we have nothing you want.” 

One of the men snorted, slinging his gun over his shoulder as he started towards the wagon, the raider in front of Arthur staying where he was. Hosea tensed as the man came nearer, meeting John’s awaiting eyes. 

As soon as the raider made it to the wagon, leaning forward to peer over the edge, Hosea pulled back and fired, watching as the bullet lodged into his forehead, the life flickering from his eyes as he collapsed. 

John wasted no time, firing at the nearest raider reaching for his gun, Dutch doing the same as he scrambled to his feet. 

The man in front of Arthur had unholstered his own weapon, but even in a weakened state, Arthur still moved faster. He grabbed the raider’s wrists, jamming a knee into his chest, pushing them both to the ground, working to pry the gun from his hands. 

In the end, the Lemoyne Raiders didn’t put up much of a fight. The two men left standing never even got the chance to pull the trigger before they were on the ground, twitching in a puddle of their own blood as they died. 

Arthur had easily managed to overpower the man beneath him, ripping the gun from his hands, slamming the end of the weapon into his face, over and over again until it was nothing but a red, bubbling puddle, bashed in and unrecognizable. 

Hosea stood as the road finally quieted, slipping his gun back into his belt, only to realize Arthur hadn’t stopped his ruthless beating. 

The man below him had stopped moving long ago, the dirt already stained thick with crimson, Arthur’s hands wet and coated in blood. 

Dutch was rushing forward before Hosea could say anything, John skidding to a stop a few paces away, furrowing his brow when Arthur continued to slam the end of the gun into the dead man, silent, each blow given with more force than the one before. 

“Arthur!” Dutch had grabbed him by the shoulders, practically dragging him backwards, yanking him away from the dead man. “Jesus, Arthur, he’s dead!” 

Arthur was settled back down on the grass, each breath still an unsteady wheeze, frantic eyes almost blank. The gun was pried away and tossed aside, Dutch gently reaching for his blood-stained hands. 

“Calm down, ok? We need you to relax. He’s dead. We have to go.” 

Hosea cautiously started forward, John close at his side, crouching next to Dutch to watch Arthur gradually get ahold of himself. His breathing sounded painful, but his eyes were clearing, staring down at Dutch’s hands on his. 

“You with us?” 

Arthur nodded, refusing to meet their eyes, ashamed. “Sorry.” 

“It’s ok,” Dutch promised, impossibly gentle, pulling away and offering a hand as he stood. “Come on. Let’s find a way to get home. It’s been a long day.” 

Arthur nodded, accepting the help, stumbling slightly as he stood, barely managing to stay upright as he took his first step. 

Hosea watched him, careful, the blind rage melting to exhaustion as Dutch lead him away from what he’d done. 

Dutch had been wrong, too caught up in his own shock and anger to notice. The news had clearly hit Arthur harder than he’d let on, overwhelmed by his own grief and outrage. 

Dutch’s stubbornness had always been a grounding force, but the rage of a dying man was beyond dangerous, especially in a world already so cold and hopeless. 

But Arthur wouldn’t die. Hosea wouldn’t let him, no matter how determined the world was to rip him away. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love all your comments so much, they really do make my day! Thank you all so much for reading!


	4. Chapter 4

If one more person sent him that pitying, wary glance, Arthur was going to ride out of camp and never look back. 

It was a lie, of course. An angry lie stemmed from the exhaustion that never seemed to go away. Being alone was the last thing he wanted. Without someone watching over him, as suffocating and repetitive as it was, a small part of him was terrified he would close his eyes and never open them again. 

Tuberculosis. White Plague, he’d heard other people call it, a colorful name for something so dark and deadly. 

Of all the many things that could kill him, that almost had killed him over the years, this was how he would die. He would slowly stop breathing when his own rotting lungs eventually failed him. 

A day since returning from town, and he was still at war with himself over the news. It didn’t feel real. One part of him thought the diagnosis was better than dying from a bloody flesh wound, another decided it was worse. 

But it was a death sentence. No matter how many bowls of hot stew Pearson brought him, no matter how many encouraging smiles were sent his way, it wouldn’t slow down the process. 

“Lots of people can live with consumption,” Javier has said, unprompted and unwanted, the two of them alone at the campfire. It was almost identical to his useless reassurances to John, bleeding out from the permanent mark of the wolf’s claws. “If anyone can fight through it, it’s you.” 

He hadn’t even  _ told  _ anyone. He’d kept silent since returning, clutching the saddle of the Lemoyne Radier’s horse, shoving away any offered help to dismount. 

But Dutch or John must have run their mouths, unable to keep it to themselves, refusing to let Arthur suffer alone anymore. 

Or maybe Arthur’s sulking had just been  _ that  _ obvious, and Javier was smart enough to see the coughing for what it was. 

Arthur just shrugged, staring at the lapping flames, wondering how many more fires he would be around the see. 

“The warm air’s gotta help,” Javier said. “Could be worse. We could be back up in those mountains.” 

“It’d only kill me faster,” Arthur muttered. “I’m dying no matter where we are.” 

He wished Javier was playing his guitar, singing another gentle song under his breath. The familiarity of the music had always set Arthur at ease after a bad day, and right now he felt like screaming. 

“Don’t say that,” Javier argued, just one more person with Dutch’s blind faith. “That’s not like you, brother. You’ll be ok, we’ll make sure of it.” 

But Javier wasn’t Dutch, and his uncertainty had always been easier to read, no matter how badly he wanted to believe his words.  

There were footsteps, someone else settling beside the fire, and Arthur watched Bill carefully. Judging by the look in the man’s eyes, he knew exactly what was wrong with Arthur, and he’d never been one to be gentle. 

“Ain’t there...ain’t there places for people like you?” he asked, uncapping his beer bottle. “I mean-I mean for people who...got what you have.” 

Bill hadn’t meant it to be malicious, but Arthur couldn’t help the new wave of dread washing over him at the words. He hadn’t brought up the idea of a sanatorium to anyone, hadn’t even allowed himself to consider it. 

He’d heard enough horror stories to last a lifetime, the unethical treatments, the pain of isolation. Places like that were just a way to get sick men out of the streets, quarantine them to stop the disease from spreading. 

Dutch and Hosea knew it as well as he did, but they were all living in close-quarters, Arthur surrounded by the healthy. If he would gradually grow too sick to pull his weight, sending him away to die in silence seemed like the best option, as nauseating as the thought was. 

“You don’t know shit, Williamson,” Javier snarled, snapping Arthur out of his thoughts. “Do you have any idea what they do there? You want Arthur to be...to be chained up and...and injected with--” 

“No!” Bill’s outburst was loud enough to attract the entire camp, no longer a discussion about Arthur’s help, but a desperate attempt to prove he knew what he was talking about. “Obviously we’d find a  _ different  _ one.” 

“A different one?” 

“Yeah,” Bill agreed, taking a swig of his drink. “One where they...you know...wouldn’t do that.” 

Any other time, Arthur would have joined in, poking fun at the utter bullshit pouring from Bill’s mouth. But it was different when it was Arthur’s fate being discussed so casually.

Javier shook his head, leaning back against the log. “No. And Dutch won’t send you anywhere, Arthur. It’s best to have you close.” 

Arthur raised an eyebrow, no longer able to discern hidden lies from deluded honesty. “You sure about that?” 

Javier nodded almost immediately, stubbornly determined, both men turning to Bill, who was silent for a second too long. 

But when he finally agreed, Arthur couldn’t sense any deception. “Sure. So what if you’re sick, right? Just so long as you ain’t coughing in my food.” 

Arthur snorted, dread finally set aside in favor of the easy warmth in his chest. “I’ll do my best.” 

“You know something?” Javier asked. “I don’t care if  you’re bleeding out, or coughing your lungs up, I’d rather have you watching my back than this fat drunk.” 

Bill’s eyes went wide at the awakened laughter, his furious rant cut short when Arthur’s laughs turned to coughs, wet hacks muffled by his sleeve. 

Hesitantly, Javier put a hand on Arthur’s back, clearly unsure of how to help. Arthur shook his head, gently pushing him away, beyond grateful when the attack only lasted a few seconds. 

“Arthur?” 

“I’m fine,” he assured, clearing his throat. “Thanks.” 

The discussion died after that, the campfire falling silent, surrounded only by muffled voices from surrounding tents. 

Arthur found himself scanning the camp, smiling at the normality of it, the gentle chatter and quiet laughter, the clinking of bottles and smoke from cigars. 

Charles was leaned against one of the trees, sharpening an arrowhead with his knife, troubled eyes illuminated by the silver moonlight, and Arthur felt himself stand, excusing himself without thinking. 

Charles glanced up as he approached, only briefly, turning back to his work without so much as a smile. But it wasn’t a command to leave, his voice soft and steady when he spoke. 

“How’re you holding up?” 

“Fine,” Arthur huffed, suddenly wondering if he was intruding. He’d only known Charles a few months, but the man was quiet, preferring to keep to himself. “Getting real tired of people asking me that.” 

Charles smiled, amusement genuine. “Fair enough.” 

Arthur wasn’t quite sure what to say after that, the two of them quickly falling into an easy silence filled only by the scraping of wood and the rattling in his chest. 

“That doesn’t sound good,” Charles said after a moment, hands finally stilling. “Dutch...didn’t say much but the doctor--” 

“He says it’s just gonna get worse.” 

Charles’s eyes were on him, seeing right through the easiness of his words, and Arthur refused to look anywhere but the moonlit ground. 

“Arthur…” he paused, but the pity and grief remained unspoken. “I’m sorry.” 

Arthur’s smile was grim, still refusing to meet his gaze. Because there was no real way to interpret the words, no way to read Charles, to see beyond his voice and know what he was thinking. 

They were brothers, had been since he’d started riding with them. He’d trusted Charles since the first time the man had saved his life, since they’d had each other’s backs. 

But they’d only known each other a few months. Arthur wished it had been longer, wished he could have gotten to know him better. He wanted more time. 

It was as if Charles could read his mind, or maybe in his exhausted grief he’d spoken aloud, because the other man’s hand was suddenly wrapped around his arm, forcing Arthur to finally look up.  

“You are  _ not  _ dead yet.” 

Arthur laughed at that, or maybe sobbed. It was nearly impossible to tell, either would make his chest ache just the same. 

“I should have been dead a long time ago,” he admitted, meeting watchful eyes. “But a quick death was too good for me, anyway.” 

Charles was silent, tilting his head, studying Arthur curiously. “Most of the men in this camp will die quickly. They’ll meet a bullet or the end of a rope and that’s...just the way it is.” 

“Lucky for them.” 

“Maybe,” Charles said. “They’re never given a warning. They don’t have to think about death like you do. But they never get a chance to decide who they want to be when they go. They die as the men they are, never given time to reflect or decide.” 

“And that’s a bad thing?” Arthur asked. “They’re dead. They go out fighting. Why’s it matter?” 

Charles shrugged. “Maybe it doesn’t. But...those Callendar boys were two of the meanest, nastiest men out there. That’s who they were when they died, and that’s all they’ll ever get to be. That’s how they’ll be remembered.” 

Charles took a breath, pausing to watch the rustling of leaves in the breeze, the rippling of the lake's water, Arthur waiting breathlessly for him to continue. 

“But you have time. To change, to decide what you want, to choose how you’ll be remembered. In a way, it’s a gift to know. In a way...you are lucky.” 

“I don’t feel very lucky,” Arthur said, following Charles’s eyes to watch the lake. “What if I don’t want to...change the way I’m remembered?” 

He wasn't a good man. He knew that, always had. He wanted to be better, wanted to try, but the way the world was shaping around him, he wouldn’t have the time. 

And under the new weight of his nearing end, it had never been the first thing on his mind. It had never been what was most important. 

And once again, Charles seemed to know exactly what he was thinking. 

“Mac was alone when he died,” he said. “So are so many others who die quickly. Alone, scared, hurting, and there’s nothing they can do about it.” 

Arthur was silent, the words stuck on his tongue, dying to be spoken aloud, the true realization making his chest ache, this time not from his broken lungs. 

“I don’t want to die alone.” 

“I don’t think anyone plans on letting you,” Charles said, turning back to face him, fingers on his arm tightening. “Your family’s here, Arthur. All of us. You  don’t have to go through this alone.” 

“Dutch and Hosea,” he started, trailing off with an uneasy pause. “It was the three of us for so long. When I...when I die...I don’t know what it’ll do to them.” 

They had been the first people to ever care for him so deeply, to love him like a son, to stay despite his flaws, despite the way the world tried to keep them apart. 

He wouldn’t trade the years with Dutch and Hosea for anything. They’d saved his life countless times, given him purpose. But they would be hurting because of him, mourn for him, and he could do nothing to stop it. 

“It’s hard to lose a son.” Charles spoke like he understood Arthur knew the feeling first-hand. “But imagine how much harder it would be if you weren’t together.” 

 

*****

 

Over the weeks, Arthur’s cough worsened, but it was nowhere near as bad as he had feared. Miss Grimshaw was insistent on him resting, but most of the others seemed to know better than to keep him cooped up at camp.

The fear of uselessness that had eaten at him since he’d learned he was sick gradually faded, as did the burning insecurity. 

Bill, drunk out of his mind, had teased Arthur relentlessly about his extra rest, how the camp was slipping without his usual effort, good intentions once again mixed with the wrong words. 

Hosea had heard, the older man always seeming to keep a close eye on him, and had taken Arthur hunting without another word, letting him track, kill, and skin two deer like nothing was different.  

When they’d returned to camp, Pearson had smiled and thanked him, but hadn’t rushed to help like Arthur was incapable. There were no comments about the danger of him coughing near the food, something a childish part of his mind had been terrified of. 

When the deer were prepared and cooking in the stew, Arthur had excused himself to the edge of the lake, coughing up so much blood he thought he might be dying. 

But it wasn’t the first time, wasn’t close to the worst time, passing like all the others, and he went on with the day like nothing was different. 

But things  _ were  _ different. He could tell the others were doing their best to pretend they weren’t, and he appreciated it beyond words, but he noticed everything. 

Every lingering stare, every unspoken word someone almost said. There was pity, grief, regret, everything awakened by the loss of a loved one. Like he was already dead. 

At least some had managed to accept it. He knew Dutch well enough to know the man wouldn’t rest until he found a way to save him, no matter what Hosea said to him, logical as it no doubt was. 

The older man had said nothing outright about the sickness while in Arthur’s presence, Hosea seeming to prefer to keep it out of both their minds as often as he could. 

And John just seemed angry, sulky, fighting a silent battle of blame and grief in his head, like he was furious at the world that had done this. Or maybe he blamed himself. 

But whether they accepted the inevitable or not, it had been some sort of silent agreement that he wasn’t to go out on any more jobs. 

He knew it was reasonable, the doctor had ordered lots of rest and clean air, but he couldn’t help the dark thoughts spiraling in his head each time Dutch sent someone out, guns ready. 

But he wasn’t completely shoved aside, sitting in with Dutch and Hosea, planning their moves against the Grays and the Braithwaites, the two families they were so determined to con gold out of. 

But planning had never been Arthur’s strong suit, he’d never had the sharp, patient mind for it. He’d always left it up to Dutch and Hosea, trusting them, working as the muscle, enforcer, or whatever was needed from him. 

And now that was taken from him. His life was shortened, and he couldn’t even keep doing what had given him meaning for so many years. 

He ended up just sitting with Dutch and Hosea, listening to their voices, nodding along like he had a clue of what to say, like his mind wasn’t solely on treasuring their company, cherishing each moment he had left with them. 

“Walk with me.” 

It had been a month since Arthur’s diagnosis, since things had surprisingly turned out ok considering the grim circumstances, and the hope had never faded from Dutch’s eyes. 

His words weren’t a command, nothing urgent in his tone. It was simply a suggestion, one Arthur had no reason to refuse. 

“Sure.” He had to fight back another cough as he stood, determined not to give Dutch a reason to change his mind. “Everything ok?” 

“Everything’s fine. Just thought you could use a break from this place.” 

It was another thing that had changed since he’d come back from the doctor. People noticed the little things now. Shifts in his tone, his poor sleeping and eating habits, and how quickly the camp’s funds dropped when he stopped working. 

It had taken them until he was dying for anyone to see him as anything but an unbreakable workhorse, but at least the effort was being made. At least his last days would be spent with people who cared. 

They didn’t bother to unhitch the horses, neither planning on going far. Dutch wouldn't have let him if he asked, not with the way each breath would still turn to a shaking wheeze. 

But it was becoming manageable, the weeks of rest seeming to do some good. Or maybe he was just getting used to the infection in his lungs. 

The sun was beginning to set behind the lake, the leaves of the surrounding forest decorated with a dark orange tint, the air warm and breathable. 

“How are things--” he broke off with a cough, fortunately able to catch his breath quickly. “--how are things with the Grays after that last job?” 

“We’re getting there.”

“And burning those fields?” 

Dutch shook his head, stuffing his hands in his pockets. “As far as I can tell, nobody knows we had anything to do with that. I was going to send Bill and Sean into town for another job but…” 

He trailed off, and it wasn’t hard to latch onto his uneasiness. “But, what?” 

“I don’t know,” he admitted, slowing his pace. “Something about it just doesn’t feel right.” 

“If it doesn't feel right, don’t go.” 

Dutch smiled, Arthur suddenly realizing how far they were from camp, how long they’d walked in peaceful silence. It felt like forever since it had just been the two of them, away from everything, talking openly.

“Hosea’s been telling me the same thing,” the older man said. “I don’t know. We’ll wait for the Braithwaites to make their next move. Then we’ll see.”

Arthur nodded as they continued, quieting, doing his best to enjoy the pleasant air, breathing as deep as his lugs would allow him. One wrong move and he’d be on his knees, lungs squeezing, blood falling from his chin. 

“How are you doing, son?” 

The question came out of nowhere, genuine concern, Dutch suddenly stopping to watch him intently, as if daring Arthur to lie. 

“I’m...I’m ok,” he said truthfully. “Just tired.” 

“Are you sleeping?” 

“Most nights.” Nights when he wasn’t forced awake by an overpowering fit of coughs, to blood stains on his pillows, to horrible dreams of his chest slowly being crushed while his family watched. “The, uh...the morphine helps.” 

Dutch raised his brow, crossing his arms. There was no judgment in his eyes, only curiosity. “Swanson?” 

Arthur nodded, suddenly ashamed. Swanson, wandering around at odd hours of the night nursing a bad hangover, had been the one to find Arthur coughing his lungs up in bed after a particularly restless night of pain and nightmares. 

He hadn’t asked questions, hadn’t offered unwanted sympathy or panic. He’d only asked Arthur’s permission, given him a small injection, and let him lay back down to a deep, uneventful sleep. 

“I don’t use it every night.” It wasn’t a lie. He only sought the Reverend out when he found there was no other choice, refusing to let himself become dependent. “Just when I need to...when it gets really--”

“It’s ok,” Dutch assured. “Whatever you need to get through this, Arthur.”

He nodded with a smile, beyond grateful, rubbing absently at his arm. But Dutch was hesitating, fidgeting, something else clearly on his mind. Arthur knew better than to pry, waiting instead for the man to speak on his own terms. 

“There’s an old oak tree,” he started, hands clasped behind him. “It’s a ways outside camp. Beside the river. It’s the only tree in the area without leaves. You can’t miss it if you know what to look for.” 

Arthur blinked, not sure where this was going. “Ok.” 

“I put some money in there,” Dutch said, and Arthur froze. “It’s a good amount. Not nearly as much as you deserve, but it’s...it’s enough to start a life. To get out and find someplace quiet.” 

“Dutch--” 

“You’re going to make it through this,” he promised. “I have faith in you. You’re going to make it. As long as you take it easy and--” 

“I  _ am _ taking it easy,” Arthur snapped, wincing at the malice in his voice. But he couldn’t help it. His chest felt tight, and it wasn’t from the White Plague. “I’ve...I thought I’ve been doing fine here.” 

“You have. Of course you have, considering…” 

“Considering  _ what?”  _ Arthur demanded, hating the confusion plastered on Dutch’s face. “That I could keel over at any second?” 

Something darkened in the older man’s eyes. “Don’t say things like that.” 

“Why? It’s true.” 

Dutch took a step forward, words spoken slow, almost threatening. “Because you aren’t going to die, Arthur. You’re not going to do that to me. But you’re sick and under a lot of stress. And you deserve a life if you want it. I can get you someplace safe and peaceful.” 

And away from the strong and healthy men Dutch so desperately needed to be sharp. Dutch wanted him to take the money for the sake of the already struggling camp. They couldn’t afford to carry around dead weight. 

But Arthur couldn’t bring himself to accept that, to give in without a fight, not when things had been looking so hopeful. 

“Dutch,” he tried, terrified of setting him off. “I know I’m not...like I used to be but I’m still...I’m doing my best, I swear.” 

Dutch furrowed his brow, dark, rising anger switching back to confusion. “What?” 

“I’ll hunt more, I-I’ll...I’ll even start taking jobs again if we’re running low. I’m trying to...to keep earning my keep, but I--” he had to pause to cough, flinching when blood sprayed into his palm. 

He felt dizzy, overwhelmed with the terror brought by the thought of dying alone, surrounded by silence. 

“I’m doing my best,” he said again, barely managing to get the words across. “But the coughing...I just--I just keep feeling weak and I can’t do...as much as I used to. I’m sorry. But I’ll keep trying, I promise. I’ll do whatever you need.” 

He couldn’t seem to stop, promises he wasn’t sure he could keep rolling off his tongue, and he almost didn’t realize his words had turned to begs, desperately pleading with Dutch not to kick him out. 

He was weak, growing weaker. Even the effort it took to hold back tears was exhausting. He wasn’t the same man Dutch had raised, wasn’t the muscle and clear mind the others needed. 

But selfishly, the fear of being without his family was worse than the fear of being a burden. 

Dutch’s eyes suddenly widened, horrified, rushing over in a heartbeat. “Oh god, Arthur, no. No, no, no, I didn't mean it like that.”

His hands were clutching Arthur’s shoulders, his grip almost painful, forcing Arthur to meet his eyes. 

“Jesus, Arthur,” he muttered. “You’re the only one who’d be worried about  _ that  _ with everything you’re going through.”

“I’m--” 

“Shut up and listen to me.” Dutch loosened his grip and pulled back, smiling. “You’ve done more for us than anyone would have expected. You’re the strongest man I know, no matter how weak you feel. But it wouldn’t matter if you were in a goddamn coma. I ain’t kicking you out.” 

Arthur swallowed, wanting desperately to trust his words. “I ain’t...we still need money, Dutch.” 

“And we’ll get it. Everything doesn’t have to fall on your shoulders, Arthur. We’ll figure it out, just like we always do. But you’re what’s most important right now. Family comes first, do you understand me?” 

Arthur managed a nod, still feeling weak and empty, suddenly wanting nothing more than to collapse by the campfire and pretend that Dutch was right, that everything would work itself out. “I understand.” 

“Good.” Dutch turned to walk back towards camp, pausing to look over his shoulder. “The money’s there if  _ you  _ want it, son. It’s yours. If you wanted to get out. It ain’t about what I want.”

Arthur shook his head, wiping the blood on his already stained jacket. “Family comes first, right?” 

Dutch, fortunately, seemed to understand what he meant, smile gentle and knowing as they started back to camp.

“I’ll be at your side as long as you want, son.”  

He still had his family. Despite the stress and approaching end, he was right where he belonged. He didn’t want to die, but if he had to, he wouldn’t do it alone. 

The warm, hopeful thoughts were ripped away in an instant, something suddenly slamming into his side, knocking him to the forest floor. 

He heard Dutch yell, overpowered quickly by other voices, everything swirling into one jumble of noise. 

As soon as Arthur tried to sit up, his breath caught in his throat, the violent coughs stealing away what little strength he had to fight back, each hack aggravating the bruise on his side where he’d fallen. 

He couldn’t stop, each more painful than the last, and he wasn’t anywhere near being done when rough hands hooked under his shoulders, pulling him backwards, deep into the darkening forest. 

“Dutch!” It was barely audible through the awful gasps and wheezes, said on instinct, stemmed from the one part of his mind that wasn’t panicking. 

And through his blurring vision, Arthur could see the other man, kicking and struggling, a rope held tight around his neck. There was a man behind him, pulling on the lasso, choking him, keeping Dutch away from Arthur. 

Their eyes met, frantic and terrified, Dutch’s horror only growing when Arthur was dragged further and further away, struggles weakened by the persistent coughing.  

Neither could breathe, could gain purchase to try and fight back. Dutch was choked by the tightening rope, slowly squeezing the life from him, Arthur choking on his own traitorous lungs. 

Dutch’s struggles were weakening, his eyes growing heavy, Arthur barely able to hear his strangled calls over his own gasps. 

Dutch stopped watching him, stopped fighting to get back to his side, his eyes slipping shut as he fell eerily still against the forest floor. 

Arthur tried once more to scream for him, fear and panic overtaking any reason, the attempted outburst only worsening the coughs, blood dripping down his chin in a watery stream. 

His vision was turning black. He couldn’t see Dutch anymore, couldn’t see the forest. He couldn’t even tell if he was still being dragged, or if it was just his head spinning, body screaming for oxygen. 

There were voices all around him, gruff and almost taunting, their words impossible to make out through the haze weighing him down. 

Arthur felt himself being pushed and yanked forward, gasping for breath as he was once again slammed into something solid. 

He groaned, squeezing his eyes shut when it only brought on another series of painful coughs, instinctively curling in on himself. 

There was laughter, and in his confusion Arthur found himself desperately searching for someone he recognized. 

Had Dutch been with him? It was impossible to remember, voices and memories blending together into an indecipherable blur of pain and confusion. 

“Hang tight, boy,” someone said, their voice just another wave of piercing agony. “Behave yourself and this will all be over soon.” 

The words barely registered in Arthur’s racing mind, but they made him sick to his stomach, the overwhelming nausea the last thing he knew before the world went dark. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading!!


	5. Chapter 5

The world was spinning, Dutch’s throat screaming in agony with each pulse of his heart, the metallic taste of blood in his mouth making him gag. 

The air was cold, clinging to him, making him shiver against the gentle, icy winds. It was never this cold in camp. The area they had chosen was warm, the winds kept at bay. They had gotten beyond lucky, the mild weather helping to keep Arthur strong. 

Dutch’s eyes flew open, the sudden panic clearing the haze from his mind, everything coming back in a vivid flash of memory and pain. 

There had been men, their attackers dangerously close to camp, holding Dutch by the throat, forcing him to watch helplessly as Arthur was dragged into the trees. 

He tried to call out, desperate for a response, to see the younger man safe and chastising Dutch for his unnecessary worry. 

But trying to talk just made the pain in his bruised neck spike, blood sliding down his throat, and he fell face-first back into the cold ground, choking and coughing as he struggled to roll onto his back. 

If this was how Arthur had been feeling for the past few weeks, he really was stronger than anyone was giving him credit for.

And here he was, on the ground feeling sorry for himself, Arthur taken away right before his eyes. 

“Dutch?” 

His heart was pounding in his ears, the feel of the rope squeezing around his neck still lingering in constant waves. 

“Arthur! Dutch! Can you hear us?” 

There were voices swirling through the forest air, calling for him, calling for Arthur. They were all familiar, all panicked, and Dutch forced himself to open his mouth, the only noise escaping a distressed groan. 

“If you boys don’t answer me right now, I swear to god, I’ll leave you both out here to freeze!”

And that was Hosea, his usual composure quickly fading, desperation and defeat seeping into his voice. Dutch forced himself to swallow, wincing against the knives in his throat, calling out to his last hope. 

But all that came out was a ragged cough. If Dutch could, he would have screamed, falling back to the ground, feeling like he was sinking. 

But it must have been enough, Dutch tensing when he heard heavy footsteps, defenseless on his back as they rushed forward. 

“Jesus, Dutch.” 

But the familiar, exasperated tone set him at ease almost immediately, Hosea dropping to his knees beside him, hands hovering over the gruesome bruising along Dutch’s neck. 

“Come on,” he said, soothing, like he was talking to a child. Like Dutch was the one whose life was in danger. “Sit up.” 

Dutch did as he was told, the pain in his neck bringing tears to his eyes. But it was far from important, and he clutched Hosea’s shirt to keep him close, speaking through the discomfort. 

“Arthur,” he rasped, frantically trying to meet Hosea’s eyes. “They--they took Arthur...Hosea--” 

Something was pressed up against his lips, cool liquid sliding down his aching throat, Dutch reluctantly falling silent to swallow the water until Hosea spoke again. 

“We were worried she got both of you.” 

Dutch shoved the water away, grabbing onto Hosea’s arm, struggling to find his footing. “Who?” 

“Hosea?” The new voice cut off any answer Dutch might have been given, John pushing his way through the brush. “Did you find-- _ Dutch?  _ What happened, where’s--?” 

He cut himself off, eyes widening as he glanced around, true panic setting in when he realized the two older men were alone. 

“Go get the others,” Hosea instructed, helping Dutch to his feet. “Bring the horses with you.”

“Where’s Arthur?” John demanded, Dutch refusing to meet the younger’s eyes. “Dutch, where’s Arthur?” 

Hosea spoke for him, unsettlingly calm. “Go get the horses, son. We need to get back to camp.” 

They needed to find Arthur. They needed to search for any remaining tracks, find who had taken him by any means necessary, and get Arthur home where he belonged. 

But Hosea, just as worried as everyone else, would have already been acting if finding Arthur was an immediate possibility. 

So he let himself be guided to his feet and lead through the once peacefully warm forest, following after where John had begrudgingly disappeared. 

“We think that  Braithwaite woman took him.” 

Dutch bit his lip, remembering the queasy uneasiness in his stomach, the way their plans had been going almost too well. “How do you know?” 

Hosea was silent a moment, eyes on the ground, and Dutch waited for the ball to drop, for the rest of his fragile hopes to shatter like glass. 

“They tried to take Jack, too.” 

“Oh, god. Is he--?” 

“The boy’s fine,” Hosea assured, setting a bit of the panic to rest. “John was with him. It’s taken care of.” 

Dutch winced as he cleared his throat, electing to stay quiet while Hosea explained, reveling in the contained calm of the man’s voice, as forced as it was.  

“You two were gone for hours. We didn’t...we’ve been looking for you since it got dark. The Braithwaites know what we’ve been up to. I just...wish we’d come sooner.” 

Dutch shook his head, still clutching the older man’s arm. “It ain’t your fault, Hosea. We’ll get him back. We’ll get him back if we have to kill that entire goddamn family.” 

It would have been more impactful if his voice wasn’t still cracked and broken, worse than Arthur’s after a fit of those terrifying coughs, but Hosea seemed to understand, nodding as they kept moving. 

It wasn’t long until they heard horses, riders carefully approaching in the darkness, Dutch tensing on instinct, relaxing only when he recognized John, Charles, and Javier.

Dutch and Hosea’s horses were lead behind them, and he couldn’t help but notice that Arthur’s horse was nowhere in sight. Like someone had suggested he’d be too weak to ride by himself.  

“Where is he?” John’s voice was accusing, furious in his fear, the terror in his eyes mirroring Dutch perfectly. “Dutch--” 

“There wasn’t anything I could do,” he said, and it was clearly the wrong thing to say because John’s anger turned to rage in a heartbeat. 

“Nothing you could  _ do?  _ Why was he even out here at all? He--”

“John.” He fell silent under Hosea’s stern voice, the rest watching quietly. “We’ll find him. It’ll be ok.” 

There was nothing left to say after that, Dutch and Hosea mounting in the heavy silence, the group turning and riding back to camp. 

John had every right to be furious, the whole thing entirely Dutch’s fault. He’d pulled Arthur out of camp, both of them relaxed and defenseless, all for the purpose of a talk that had nearly sent the younger man into a panic. 

He’d let his guard down, let himself grow distracted, only realizing they weren’t alone when it had been too late, rendered useless by the rope around his neck. 

The terror had clouded his mind, slowed him down, choked by the darkness spreading through his vision, gaping and gasping for air that wouldn’t come, forced to watch a sick and struggling Arthur dragged out of his reach.  

And he’d been the one to go after those two families in the first place, to insist that the gold was worth the risk, to refuse to listen to Hosea’s reason and continue to believe everything would work out. 

He should have known something would go wrong. Something always did. 

When they finally made it back to camp, the gentle glow of the fire guiding them back home, Dutch found he couldn’t look away from the countless, watchful eyes, hands trembling as he dismounted. 

“We need to move,” Hosea said, Dutch spinning on his heels to face him. “They were too close.” 

“We need to hunt down every single Braithwaite before...before they--” 

“If they were going to kill him,” Hosea interjected, the words somehow worsening the stabbing pain in Dutch’s neck. “They wouldn’t have bothered to take him.” 

“He’s  _ sick,”  _ Dutch pointlessly reminded him. “You really want him in enemy hands?” 

“Of course not.” 

“They know where we are,” Charles spoke up, quiet but firm, Dutch turning his steely gaze to the younger man. “We won’t be able to help Arthur if they decide to kill us all.”

“There’s an abandoned mansion up in the swamps,” Lenny said, a bit more timid in the face of a fuming Dutch. “It was a Raider base, but Javier and I cleared it out. It might be a good place to lie low.” 

Hosea looked hopeful when Dutch nodded, closing his eyes as he held a hand to his bruised neck, trying to block out the dizzying pain and frustration. 

“Fine,” he muttered. “You and Charles can ride over there, make sure it’s abandoned. Miss Grimshaw, you and the girls start packing everything up.”

He turned away, ignoring Hosea’s frown as he lifted himself back to The Count’s saddle, seeing only Arthur’s panicked eyes as he was pulled away.

“I’m going after the people who took Mr. Morgan,” he announced. “Anybody who wants to help me get him back is welcome to join me. Hosea?” 

“I’m right with you, Dutch.” The older man was already mounting his horse, apprehension thankfully set aside, and it took less than a heartbeat for more voices to speak up. 

John, without a single word, was the first to move towards the horses, despite the quiet pleads of Abigail to stay, nearly drowned out by the quiet whimpers of the terrified boy in her lap.  

Any other day, Dutch would have urged John to stay with his shaken family. But Arthur was their top priority, and they needed as many men as they could get. He knew John wouldn’t have backed down for anything. 

“He came to save my ass,” Sean said, following John and moving towards his own horse.  “It’s the least I can do.”

Javier and Bill were right behind him, their fury kept quiet, no hesitation or question in their eyes. Dutch’s chest swelled with gratitude, a newfound determination setting the pain aside. 

They would get Arthur back. He wasn’t alone. Dutch wasn’t the only one who had lost him. 

Charles and Lenny were watching, visibly anxious, itching to storm the Braithwaite manor as much as everyone else. But they had their instructions, and the sooner they could move into a new camp, the better. 

“Bring him back,” Charles said, quiet and pleading. “Please.” 

Dutch nodded, pulling on his reins and riding out of camp, five of his loyal men, his family, trailing behind him.

Arthur had been terrified of being weak, of being unwanted, just because he was losing some of his strength. But he’d never lost his family, or the trust of the men willing to die for him. 

  
  


They’d ditched their horses, guns held ready as they approached the manor, Hosea’s presence at his side the only thing keeping Dutch from losing his mind to the panic. 

Clearly, it was doing little to help John. 

“I swear to god,” he snapped, stiffening as the Braithwaite gates came into view. “I’ll kill every one of them.” 

“Who kidnaps a sick man?” Javier demanded. “And a  _ child?”  _

Hosea shook his head, the calm beginning to fade from his voice. “We underestimated them.” 

“No,” Dutch said.  _ “They  _ underestimated  _ us.”  _

There was no gold, nothing they would be able to get to. Not according to Hosea. They’d been used, stabbed in the back. They’d let their guard down, and now Arthur was paying the price. 

The manor was quiet, the front gates deserted as they walked through, but the windows were illuminated with golden light. 

“I need you all to stay calm,” Dutch said, and then, completely ignoring his own advice, threw his head back and screamed as loud as his battered throat would allow. “Get down here  _ now!  _ You  _ inbred trash!”  _

Almost immediately the door was opening, Catherine Braithwaite’s sons stepping into the night, guns loaded and ready. 

“What the hell do you want?” 

Hosea was holding his breath, John trembling at his side, and Dutch realized he wasn’t the only one on the verge of losing his composure. 

“We’ve come for our friend,” he said, taking a step forward. “You must have known we would.” 

The Braithwaite boy sneered, holding his weapon closed. “You shouldn’t have messed with our business now, should you?” 

“Whatever complaint you have with us...alleged, or otherwise...this is not the way you handle things. All we want is our friend back.” 

The Braithwaite stepped forward, his brothers close behind. “Get the hell off our property.” 

The porch creaked, the door opening as more Braithwaite men spilled out, weapons readied, watching the exchange. 

Had it been any other situation, anyone else taken from him, Dutch might have made more of an effort to talk peace. He could claim innocence, try to appeal to the twisted family, anything to try and avoid bloodshed. 

But it wasn’t any other situation. It was Arthur, the man he called his son, sick and hurting, torn away right before Dutch’s eyes. 

He didn’t even give a warning, unholstering his guns in the blink of an eye, splitting open the skulls of the three men before him, refusing to flinch as the rest began to fire.

All the pent up anger from the past month, the helplessness, the lack of control, all of it came spilling out as the gunfire rained down around him, Braithwaites dropping like flies as the gang pushed forward. 

The shooting never stopped, the dead men replaced at unnatural speeds, the supply of Braithwaite sons seemingly endless. 

But the porch was eventually cleared, John and Hosea following Dutch up the steps while the others held their ground against the enemies, drawing their fire. 

He didn’t even bother to try and see if the front doors were unlocked, his vision tunneling red, the throbbing pain from the bruises only driving him forward. 

He reared back, slamming his boot into the door, reveling in the sound the shattering glass made, the wood slamming against the wall as it was forced open. 

“Find Arthur,” he ordered as Hosea and John followed him inside. “And find that Braithwaite woman!” 

The three of them split up, calls for Arthur going unanswered, no matter how desperate they were. The house was silent, appearing deserted, but Dutch refused to let himself grow desperate. 

“Dutch!” Hosea’s call from upstairs sent Dutch running, John close at his heels. “Give me a hand with this door!” 

Hosea was battling with huge, round double doors, the wood dented and split but refusing to budge. 

“There’s something pressed up against it.”

Dutch nodded, shoving himself against the doors, jamming his shoulder into the broken wood. But even with Hosea doing the same, it wouldn’t budge. 

The gunfire from outside grew louder and Dutch flinched, turning to the younger man stalking the halls, throwing open unlocked doors to empty rooms. 

“John, give them a hand from the balcony,” he said. “Then see if you can find another way in.”

John did as he was told, reloading his gun and stepping outside, pressing himself against one of the pillars. There were more men riding in on horseback, the glow of their lanterns following them as they surrounded the mansion. 

Gunfire echoed all around them, and Dutch just squeezed the handle of his gun, he and Hosea pressing themselves up against the barricaded door. 

Arthur would be here. They wouldn’t block up one room so effectively if they didn’t have their prisoner in there with them. 

Because that’s what he was. A prisoner. Hosea was right, they wouldn’t go through the trouble of taking him if they were going to kill him. 

“You need to calm down?” 

Dutch scoffed, incredulous. _ “Me?  _ You know, you’ve turned into a damn hypocrite these past weeks.”

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” 

Dutch never got the chance to respond, not that it would have done any good to point out that he'd never seen Hosea so upset or on edge. 

Something on the other side was finally pushed free, wood scraping against the floor as they slowly managed to shove the door open, just as two gunshots rang out from inside. 

With a burst of strength, Hosea rushed forward, pushing his way through with Dutch right beside him. John was already inside, gun raised, standing over two Braithwaite bodies. 

Dutch ignored him, stalking past Hosea to the locked closet, kicking it so hard the wood shattered as he stepped through the broken frame. 

Huddled inside was Catherine Braithwaite, screaming in terror when her barricade was so easily broken down, Dutch grabbing her wrist hard enough to snap the bone. 

He yanked her forward, throwing her against the wall and shoving the barrel of his gun in her face.

“You want me to kill you too, old woman?” 

She tried to move away, wide-eyed and frantic, Hosea moving to stand at her other side. Another time, the older man might have remained calm and almost gentle. He might have urged Dutch to take a softer approach. 

But these people had taken Arthur. Taken him when they were already so close to losing him. 

Hosea grabbed Catherine by the shoulder, slamming her back against the wall, ignoring her cry of pain. “Where is he?” 

“You bastards,” she snarled, too far gone to even begin hearing them. “We have lived in this house for a hundred and twenty years! We never had no problems--”

Dutch pressed his gun against her throat, wanting nothing more than to pull the trigger and watch her die. 

“You took someone from us.” He pushed the cold metal deeper into her skin. “Where is he?” 

“You killed my sons!” 

“And you  _ took  _ mine,” Dutch said. “And I will surely kill the rest of yours unless you start talking.” 

“I know your type. Common  _ scum.”  _

He leaned in close, finger rested on the trigger. _“_ Where is my boy?” 

Catherine was visibly terrified, trembling against the wall, glancing around like a cornered animal. But her pride and defiance had yet to disappear “You  _ filth.”  _

Dutch briefly met Hosea’s eyes before pulling the gun away, grabbing Catherine by the arm and tugging her forward. 

“Alright. Let’s get her out of here.” 

The woman screamed and struggled as she was dragged through the doors, Hosea and John moving ahead, the shooting outside beginning to die down. 

Catherine almost succeeded in throwing them both down the stairs, kicking and thrashing, grabbing the railing and yanking Dutch to a stop. 

But all that mattered was getting her outside and doing whatever it took to get her to open her mouth. He wouldn’t lose Arthur to these people. 

Dutch managed to manhandle her to the ground, clutching a fistful of thin, gray hair, dragging her behind him the rest of the way down. 

Hosea was still screaming for Arthur, voice echoing through the walls in the sudden quiet, double-checking rooms already determined empty. Dutch felt a sickening twist in his stomach, heart dropping.

“He’s not here?” It was more of a statement than a question, his words pointless as he threw Catherine to the floor. 

Hosea and John reappeared from separate ends of the mansion, each still drowning in their panic, the older man shaking his head. “We’ve looked everywhere, Dutch.” 

“Fine.” He watched as Catherine struggled to her knees, sobbing and screaming, doing all she could to get away. “Burn this place to the ground.” 

They wasted no time before retreating back into the empty halls, and Dutch didn’t bother to watch them go, dragging the woman into the threshold of the house, finally bending down to throw her over his shoulder. 

It wasn’t long before he heard the crackling of fire, the wood of the old manor melting and splitting behind him, heat lapping at his back, and Catherine screamed in his ear. 

The fire spread behind him, Hosea and John quickly following him out onto the porch, throwing their makeshift torches into the flames. 

Hosea moved around Dutch to the stairs, John following close behind. “I guess that’s the end of the goddamn cribbage game.” 

He was trying his best to make the night feel like a victory. Another night, it would have been. But they were still leaving empty handed.  

The rest of the gang was waiting for them by the gates, guns ready, all of them alive and covered in Braithwaite blood. 

Dutch threw Catherine onto the gravel, leveling his gun with her head, watching as her cold gaze fell on Hosea. 

“I never liked you,” she snarled. “You damn Yankee.” 

Hosea didn’t flinch, watching her like she was nothing more than a bug to be stepped on. “Why did you take him, Mrs. Braithwaite?” 

“You stole my liquor--” 

“Where is he?” 

“You stole our horses!” Her words turned to screams, sounding almost feral. “Ain’t no rules in war, Mr…” 

“Matthews.” Hosea crouched to her level, eyes hard and murderous. “What did you do to him?” 

There was a moment of silence where Dutch thought they might have no other option but to take her back to camp and let her starve until she decided to talk. 

And then the woman let out a sob, shoulders dropping as she stared at Hosea, lost and defeated, voice trembling as she spoke. 

“He didn’t look so good when my sons picked him up. They...they said they were going to put him where diseased filth like him belong. So my guess, is an asylum in Saint Denis. Either that, or dead in a ditch somewhere.” 

Dutch’s hold on the gun fell limp, and he let the weapon lower to his side. The new information, while hardly a relief, was enough to cast aside some of the anger and panic and allow himself to think. 

Saint Denis. The city wasn’t far, a two days travel at most. If they pushed their horses through the night, they could make it there in one. 

“Let’s go.” He holstered his weapon, turning away from the hysterical woman, the gang following his lead. 

“What’re we doing with her?” John asked, glancing over his shoulder as Catherine struggled to her knees, weeping as she watched her mansion go up in flames. 

There was no need to kill her. Her sons were dead, her fortune was gone, she would be a threat to no one. Judging by the look in her eyes, he wouldn’t be surprised if she ran into the flames to join her family. 

Dutch opened his mouth to say so to the others, but any words were drowned out by the crack of a gunshot. 

The wild-look in Catherine’s eyes flickered and died, and the woman fell to the ground with a hollow thud, blood seeping into the gravel. 

Hosea stood over her, expressionless, lowering his gun and slipping it back into his holster before rejoining the others in the trek back to the horses. 

“Come on,” he said, words meant for Dutch’s ears only. “Let’s go get our boy back.” 


	6. Chapter 6

Arthur couldn’t even groan when yet another fist sent him crashing back to the ground, still choking on the constant, agonizing coughs that refused to let him rest. 

He couldn’t breathe, knives dancing along his chest and throat, coughs ripping through his lungs, stealing his air. 

He couldn’t see, everything spinning, covered in dark, hazy clouds. He still felt nauseous. He was going to throw up. But he couldn’t move, couldn’t even gag around the coughing fit. 

But he could hear the laughter, could hear the awful noises he made when a boot or first slammed into his sides, burying into his gut. 

There was someone on top of him, weight pressing down, continuing to throw blow after blow into his already battered torso. The coughs hadn’t even begun to slow, and on instinct, Arthur found himself turning his head away. 

He didn’t know who these men were, why they were so insistent on hurting him, but he knew first-hand what coughing in a man’s face could do. He wouldn’t wish this kind of suffering on anyone. 

“You wanna slow down a bit?” someone asked, and by some miracle, the coughing morphed into small wheezes. “He needs to be alive when we give him back.” 

There was a scoff, Arthur flinching when it came from right above him. Everything was beginning to clear, revealing the dark figure of a bulky man pinning him down. 

“We ain’t giving him back.” Arthur was still struggling to comprehend what was happening, but the words sent chills down his spine. “Look at him. He ain’t lasting much longer.” 

He’d been with Dutch. He’d been safe, Dutch promising to stay at his side, and then--

Everything came back in a horrible flash, Arthur’s eyes widening as he tried to sit up, the panic threatening to send him into another coughing fit. 

There was a rope around Dutch’s neck. He’d watched the light drain from the man’s eyes, watched the fight die as he was thrown to the floor. He’d stopped breathing. Arthur had never seen him move again. 

He wasn’t thinking, no longer dwelling on the pain. Arthur threw his hand forward, fist colliding with something solid, relishing the sound of cracking bone. 

The man howled in pain, pulling away, clutching at the stream of blood rushing from his broken nose. Arthur didn’t give him time to recover, kicking out as he scrambled away, sending the man falling onto his back. 

It gave Arthur his first real look at his surroundings, squinting at the small, dark room he’d been thrown in. 

And as the turn of wheels and the patterning of hooves came into focus, Arthur finally realized it wasn’t a room. He’d been thrown into the back of a moving wagon, taking him further and further away from where he needed to be. 

The men recovered quickly, eyeing him like he was prey. There wasn’t nearly enough space for him to win the fight, and even if there was, he was in no state to overpower the two men. 

He couldn’t help but scream when one of them, somehow managing to get behind him, grabbed a fistful of his hair and yanked up,the second man mercilessly kicking his ribs, grinning when Arthur cried out. 

It sent him into another coughing fit, worse than the first time, blood staining his teeth and dripping down his chin. 

“Still got some fight in you, boy?” the man taunted. The hand twisted in his hair wouldn’t let go, fire shooting down Arthur’s spine. “Why don’t you close your eyes for a while?” 

The grip suddenly tightened, the kicks to his stomach finally ceasing. The first man shoved him down, fast enough to make him dizzy in the darkness, slamming the back of his head against wagon with a sickening crack as everything faded around him. 

  
  


“You said he was on the street?” 

The voices were distant, muffled, Arthur’s mind refusing to focus, to let him gather his strength. Everything hurt, as it usually did when he woke up the past few weeks, chest still aching and lungs spasming from the latest fit of coughs. 

“Thought he was drunk,” a new voice said. This one was familiar, but it wasn’t anyone he knew. It wasn’t anyone who had promised to stay with him. He’d been taken away, Dutch choked out and left on the ground. But he wasn’t dead. Dutch couldn’t be dead. “Then he started coughing up blood.” 

“And...the bruises?” 

“We had to defend ourselves, didn’t we?”  

They were talking about him, Arthur could just manage to grasp that much. He wouldn’t let himself groan, all too aware it would just worsen the pain, instead working to open his eyes. 

“He’s crazy,” someone said. “We was just trying to help, and he tried to kill us! You see what the bastard did to my nose?” 

There was a sigh, the world beginning to filter back in, Arthur’s uneasiness growing with each word he was able to decipher. 

“Do you know if there’s anyone looking for him?” One of the voices, the one that wasn’t one of the men in the wagon, sounded almost gentle as it spoke, tone laced with something akin to pity. 

“Don’t think so.” 

It wasn’t true. Dutch wasn’t dead, he would come to get him. It had been weeks, and the entire camp had refused to let Arthur have a moment's peace. They wouldn’t leave him now.  

“Look at him. If he had anyone, he wouldn’t be dumped out on the street in this state. Looks like a dead man walking.” 

He hadn’t been dumped, he’d been  _ taken.  _ He was the one who had been acting in self-defense. All he needed was to go home and regain his strength. 

He tried to open his mouth to say so, to look his kidnappers in the eye and tell them  _ they  _ were the dead men walking, that his family would tear them apart piece by piece, but the attempt only reawakened the pain in his chest, his whole body convulsing under the coughs and wheezes. 

“Well, look who’s come back to us. You gonna behave?” 

Arthur furrowed his brow, breathing in shaky gulps of air, the coughs thankfully subsiding quickly. 

“Sir?” There was a face close to his, too close, concerned yet disdainful, and Arthur was too weak to even flinch away. “Can you tell me your name?” 

He couldn’t even bring himself to move his mouth, his whole body feeling like it was on fire, refusing to obey his desperate commands. Frantically, he glanced around the strange room, trying to figure out where the hell he was. 

He was propped up on a small bed, laid down atop white sheets, seemingly endless brick walls stretching around him. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see  lines of identical beds separated by a few feet, most of them decorated with still figures of men and women. 

There was coughing in his ear, and it took Arthur a moment to realize that for the first time, it wasn’t coming from him. 

The panic came back in a horrible, nauseating wave when it dawned on him, when he saw just how pale and sickly the people in the surrounding beds were. How their complexions were eerily similar to his own. 

He met the eyes of the man standing over him, dressed in a spotless white coat, and the two men standing over his shoulder, smug and triumphant, the biggest one cradling a broken nose. 

They’d brought him to a sanatorium. They’d disguised him as a violent drunk with no one who cared about him, and brought him to a place where society could shut him out until he died. 

Arthur had heard the stories. Most people had. There was no ethical medicine for Tuberculosis victims. Not in places like this, and not for men like him. There was only pain and isolation until the sick dropped dead, the beds emptied and cleaned to make room for the next patient.  

There were countless dying men here. Nobody would ever be able to find him. They wouldn’t even think to look in the place they’d all refused to speak of. 

_ No. _ He wouldn’t let himself die here, cast aside like a rotting piece of meat. He was still needed. Dutch had promised to stay by his side. And he’d promised to do better. 

He lunged forward, eyes flying down the hall, trying desperately to see an escape. There were hands on his chest, more on his arms and legs, pushing him back down and keeping him against the bed. 

But he didn’t stop fighting, yelling and thrashing against the hands, refusing to let them suffocate him in the sheets meant for a dying man. 

“Sir!” The voices were swirling around him again, too loud, almost impossible to understand. “Sir, I need you to calm down. You’re safe, we’re only trying to help.” 

The voice was lying, just like the men who had kidnapped him, beaten him, taken him to the place determined to be his grave. 

There were still hands on him, keeping him hostage. Keeping him from his family. Keeping him from Dutch. 

The other man could be dead or injured, alone just like Arthur was. He could need help, and these men were keeping Arthur from him. 

He managed to pry an arm out of their grasp, swinging wildly, kicking out in a panic when his fist found something soft and the weight above him pulled back. 

“Can we get some help?” 

For a hopeful second, Arthur thought he’d managed to break free. His strength was still limited, overdoing it still sending him into another crippling wave of coughs, but if he could find the door, he was sure he could make it out. 

And then the hands were back on him, no longer trying to be gentle, nails digging into Arthur’s skin as they grabbed him, throwing him back down against the bed. 

Something was pressed against his wrist, soft and cold, and Arthur’s eyes widened as it wrapped around the bed, keeping his once free arm pinned at his side. 

He’d hit someone. Trapped and panicked, he’d fought blindly, struggling like an inconsolable criminal. They’d have to keep him still by any means necessary. 

In the new wave of fear and claustrophobia, Arthur tried desperately to meet understanding eyes, finding only faceless captors in his blurred vision. 

“I’m sorry,” he tried, a last pathetic resort. “I’m sorry, I won’t...I’m cooperating, I swear, just please,  _ please don’t…” _

His words sounded like screams to his own ears, though his voice couldn’t be anything above a breathy whisper. He couldn’t be tied down like this. He’d lose his mind. 

If he was going to die, he wanted to at least have the freedom to sit up and look out the window. 

Nobody listened, and despite his repeated promises, Arthur couldn’t bring himself to stop struggling as his other wrist was held still and tied down at his side, inevitably followed by both his ankles. 

Another strap was tied tightly around his chest and shoulders, leaving him practically immobile. All he could do was raise his head, glancing around at the men standing over him, pleads lost on their unyielding eyes.

“He didn’t have any money on him,” one of the voices commented. “And I doubt anyone will come claim him.” 

Someone was coming. Dutch and Hosea would come for him. They’d find him, just like they always did. 

“There isn’t much we can do for him, then,” someone else said. “But at least we’re keeping him off the streets. Jesus- will someone give him a sedative before he hurts himself?” 

Arthur hadn’t even realized he’d still been struggling against the restraints, knowing deep down that it was useless. Sick or not, he wouldn’t be able to break through these bonds. 

One of the men was stepping forward, moving up on Arthur’s side, and the terror returned all at once when he saw the needle in his hands. 

He did all he could to pull away, tugging at his wrists until his skin burned, eyes wide and watery as the man stopped beside the bed, fiddling with the syringe. 

“Don’t...don’t touch me.” Pleading hadn’t done a thing, and threats would likely only make everything worse, but it was the last thing he had. “Please  _ don’t,  _ I’m--” 

They didn’t even let him finish. There was a hand on his forehead, shoving his head back against the pillow, holding him completely still, leaving him utterly helpless. 

Arthur could do nothing but whimper as the needle was plunged into his neck, his blood growing cold when whatever he had been injected with seeped into his veins. 

He whined pathetically when it was pulled away, something cold briefly pushing against the hole, wiping the blood away. 

The hand on his face stayed where it was a moment longer, the man at his side seeming to monitor Arthur’s labored breathing, but it finally pulled away, leaving Arthur trembling and gasping for air. 

“What did you do?” he demanded, hating how weak and uneven his voice was. “What did you--?” 

“Just relax, sir,” one of the doctors said, their voice impossible to lock onto. “Don’t try and fight it, that only makes it worse.” 

And just like that, they left him. The doctors, his kidnappers, even the other patients seemed insistent on pretending he didn’t exist. 

Footsteps were echoing down the hall, fading, leaving him bound and terrified and alone. 

He couldn’t fight anymore, no longer possessing the strength to even raise his pounding head. He was falling, drowning, the bed that had become his prison rising up to suffocate him.

The room was spinning, the empty walls closing in around him, looming over his head, trapping him, stealing the little air his withering lungs allowed him to get. 

He couldn’t move, couldn’t scream, couldn’t breathe. 

He was being dragged into darkness all over again, away from his family, taken away when they needed him most. 

They still needed him, as terrified as he was of being a burden, of being useless, and now there was nothing he could do. He’d let them all down. 

But his family wouldn’t give up on him. They’d promised not to give up on him. 

He’d look for them. No matter what happened, he’d tear the country apart for any one of them, do anything he could to bring them back home. They’d always promised to do the same.

Arthur let himself give in to the weakness, sinking into the dark, the lethargy overtaking his body. Someone would come for him. All he had to do was hold on, just like he’d promised he would.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Writing this chapter made me really anxious, the idea of being strapped to a hospital bed is absolutely terrifying to me  
> Thank you for reading!


	7. Chapter 7

Watching Dutch, as awful as the other man looked, was the only thing keeping Hosea from losing his mind. Worrying about what was right in front of him was keeping the rest of his panic effectively contained. 

Dutch was hunched over on his horse, gripping the reins with white knuckles, his free hand absently rubbing along his bruised throat. He rode a few paces from the group, keeping his back turned, and Hosea sped up to ride beside him. 

“Dutch?” the other man didn’t respond, eyes glued to the road. “You doing ok?” 

“Sure.” He didn’t miss the way Dutch winced when he spoke. “I’m not the one who killed an old lady.” 

Dutch’s words didn’t sound accusing, they didn’t even sound angry. He just sounded tired. Tired and scared. 

Hosea didn’t regret what he’d done to Catherine for a second. She’d stabbed them in the back, ripping Arthur away when they so desperately needed him close. Letting her live had been out of the question. 

“She had to die,” Hosea said, seeing no point in defending himself. “After what she did, you really wanted her walking away?” 

“Of course not. I’m just worried about you.” 

Dutch was worried about  _ him?  _ They’d both lost their son, and for the past weeks, they’d both been forced to watch as he faded away, neither of them willing to fully acknowledge his growing weakness or worsening coughs. 

They were both suffering, furious, but throughout the years Hosea had always been the one in control. He could keep his composure, take a breath and find a way to fix things, be the steadying hand that kept everything together. 

He trusted Dutch with his life. He trusted his mind, his soul, the hidden truths he could hear behind desperate lies. If anyone could fix things, it was him. 

But he was unpredictable, his quick mind cursed with a short-temper and easily awakened fury. Especially when it came to his family. 

They wouldn’t lose Arthur, not this soon and not to something like this, but coming so close could send Dutch over the edge. Hosea could already see the familiar dark gleam in his scheming eyes. 

“We’ll get him back,” Hosea promised. “It won’t be hard to track him down.” 

“I know.” 

Dutch wouldn’t be able to accept anything else, no matter how grim or dire the situation seemed. Hosea knew him too well to expect him to.  

“Arthur will be fine,” he assured. “Everything will go back to normal. We just have to find him.” 

Dutch was silent, and Hosea almost didn’t realize the man was looking at him, watching as he spoke, something unreadable in his eyes. He opened his mouth like he was about to reply, cut off by the pounding of hooves. 

His hand immediately went to his holster, relaxing when he recognized Lenny and Charles bounding down the path, most of the camp’s wagons waiting behind. 

The two men were riding towards them, their hope visibly diminishing the closer they got. Lenny’s face fell as he pulled to a stop, and Charles struggled to hide his worry. 

He was the first to dare to speak, the only one able to find his voice. “He wasn’t there?” 

Dutch shook his head, rebuilding his walls of false strength in the watchful eyes of apprehensive men. “He’s in Saint Denis. If Mrs. Braithwaite was telling the truth, a few of her sons dropped him off in a sanatorium.” 

_ “What?”  _ Hosea never heard Charles raise his voice before. “They’ll  _ kill  _ him.” 

“No, they won’t. We’ll get him back.” Hosea glanced to Dutch, frowning when the man stayed silent. “Did...did you boys clear out that mansion?” 

Lenny nodded, something in his eyes brightening. “Shady Belle, up that way in the swamps. We can take you there.” 

Hosea nodded, chewing his bottom lip, glancing at the awaiting gang behind them. They were all exhausted, sore and worried and no doubt littered with cuts and bruises.

But they couldn’t afford to waste time. Saint Denis was still a day away at least, and he couldn’t even imagine what might be happening to Arthur. 

If they took too long, he could be moved to a new location by the time they made it to the city, forcing them to start their search all over again. 

“Alright,” he agreed. “Dutch, you should help get everyone settled in, then get some rest. I’ll ride to Saint Denis and--” 

“Absolutely not,” Dutch said. “Charles, you make sure everything gets where it’s needed to be. Hosea and I are riding to the city tonight. We’ll be back as soon as we can.” 

There was no arguing with Dutch when he took that tone, as broken as his voice still was, and it was clear Charles felt the same, nodding along to his orders. 

Dutch looked like he was seconds away from falling out of his saddle, and the bruising on his neck needed to be looked at eventually. 

But there was never any slowing Dutch down, never getting him to step back and see reason. Not when it was Arthur’s life on the line. 

“I’m coming with you.” 

John was guiding his horse forward, gaze set and determined, looking to Dutch and Hosea as if daring them to refuse his offer, and the older man nervously clenched his jaw. 

He had no intention to force John to stay behind. If Dutch wound up collapsing, it could only help to have another set of helping hands. And there was no telling what state they would find Arthur in. 

But John had that familiar determined glint in his eyes, refusal for anything that wasn’t his way, and Hosea’s stomach churned. The boy was more like Dutch than either of them liked to admit. 

Dutch nodded, sending one last meaningful glance to Charles before pulling the reins to the other end of the road, John and Hosea following close behind. 

“I should go, too.” It was Sean who spoke up, sounding just as young and eager as always, devoted to the man who had saved him. His face fell when Dutch shook his head, though he hardly seemed surprised at the verdict. 

“We don’t want to make a scene heading into the city,” he said. “And you need your rest. All of you do. With any luck, we’ll be back with Mr. Morgan in a few days.” 

Dutch’s voice still trembled when he spoke, turning away to hide the grimace of pain, and Hosea found himself silently hoping the man would come to his senses and elect to stay behind. 

He should have known better. 

Dutch said nothing else, starting down the path through the darkness, John wasting no more time before following. 

Hosea spared the gang one last glance, looking again to the women waiting in the wagons, briefly catching Miss Grimshaw’s cold stare. 

Countless words left unsaid, Hosea gave his horse a kick to the side, spurring them both forward, pushing the animal to catch up to his family. 

  
  


They rode through the long, endless night, the heavy air bitter and cold, the wind beating at their faces, tearing at their skin. But they didn’t stop, guided only by the moonlight shining through the treetops of the muggy swampland. 

Hosea kept a careful eye on Dutch, biting his tongue to keep from offering to set up camp as another hour passed. They were all exhausted, all stressed, and on top of Dutch’s injury, he hadn’t seen the other man sleep properly in weeks. 

But he kept his mouth shut, dragging his horse through the humid air, squinting to see with their limited light, and tried not to worry. Dutch was a grown man. He could take care of himself. 

But he’d seen Arthur nearly work himself to death, willing to let his exhaustion kill him before he stopped working. If Arthur’s self-care habits were bad, the man who had raised him couldn’t be much better. 

So when Dutch slumped forward in his saddle and nearly slid off to the marsh below, just barely catching himself at the last second, Hosea finally slowed his own tiring horse. 

“We’re stopping,” he declared. Dutch may be a leader, may be able to command a room with his voice alone, but Hosea had always been his equal. “Let’s set up camp by those trees. Away from the water.” 

John looked uneasy, but Dutch looked like he was struggling to stay awake. “We can’t--” 

“We won’t be able to help Arthur like this,” Hosea argued. “Dutch, you can barely stay on your horse. We just need a few hours. We’ll make it to the city in the morning.” 

Dutch looked like he was about to argue, but his eyes went to John, the young man’s face slowly falling in reluctant resignation. 

“Fine,” he agreed, following Hosea and carefully dismounting. “But we leave at dawn. I don’t want Arthur in that place any longer than necessary.” 

He wouldn’t be. Hosea wouldn’t let him. The horses would finally get a chance to rest, and if they pushed them hard enough in the morning, they could make it to Saint Denis before tomorrow afternoon. 

“Ain’t much they can do to him if he’s only there for a day,” John suggested hopefully, and as much as Hosea wanted to agree, he couldn’t bring himself to feel very optimistic. “Maybe they’re treating him ok.” 

“They  _ better  _ be,” Dutch snarled. “Or I’ll burn the entire city down.” 

His voice quieted towards the end of his words, his hand going back to the bruises, face twisting in pain. Hosea had already pulled the bedrolls from the saddles, laying them at the base of the trees, and he quickly guided Dutch towards his own, pushing him down before he could argue. 

“Why don’t you focus on getting some sleep first?” 

Dutch obeyed without a fight, likely only because he no longer had the strength to resist. “Hosea, we--” 

“There’s  _ one  _ sanatorium in Saint Denis,” Hosea said. “We’ll get there in the morning, find Arthur, and get him home. It’ll be alright, Dutch.” 

And Dutch was giving him that look again, that unreadable, almost expressionless look that Hosea didn’t even know how to begin unraveling. 

It was something almost sad, questioning, like the dwindling faith Hosea had felt towards Dutch lately was beginning to go both ways.

And then his gaze was torn away, Dutch lowering himself onto his back, hand falling away from his neck as he settled onto the bedroll. 

“I’ve just got a bad feeling.” It was said absently, lowered to a whisper as John finished hitching his horse and made his way over, Hosea almost didn’t feel compelled to respond. 

“These are...stressful times,” he said after a moment. “Nobody blames you for feeling on edge. Nobody. Especially not me. But we’ll work it out, just like we always do.” 

Dutch just hummed in response, crossing his arms and closing his eyes, saying nothing else as their small, makeshift camp went silent. 

Hosea looked over to John, the younger man still sitting up, legs held up to his chest as he stared at the ground, scowling. 

“You doing ok?” Hosea asked softly, scooting away from Dutch to his own awaiting bedroll. John picked his head up, hesitating. 

“Fine,” he said. “Just...want to get this done. I’ll be better when we get Arthur back.” 

Hosea nodded, understanding the feeling all too well. “We will, John. He’ll be fine.” 

John finally met his eyes, tired and weary, but still holding their spark of determination. Arthur was his brother, and despite spiking tensions between the two, their feelings towards each other had never changed. 

“I know,” he said, quieting as he laid back. “It’s Arthur. He’s always fine.” 

  
  
  


Hosea wasn’t what sure woke him. He felt groggy and sore, his back aching from sleeping on the ground, wanting nothing more than to roll over and fall right back asleep. 

But something was wrong. He’d had to camp on his own, unguarded and defenseless enough to recognize the feeling, to know when something was off. 

And then he heard the beating of hooves, the quiet murmurs of unfamiliar voices, and Hosea’s eyes flew open as he shot up from the bedroll. 

Dutch and John were doing the same, slower, dragging themselves back into the world of the living, all waking just in time to see their horses take off through the swamp, carrying strange, laughing men with guns into the distance. 

“Hey!”

Dutch seemed to have regained his voice, scrambling to his feet as his white Arabian, struggling and bucking wildly, disappeared into the low hanging trees, following close behind John and Hosea’s mounts. 

“You sons of  _ bitches!”  _

John didn’t seem to give his actions any thought, pulling out his gun and firing blindly into the trees, screaming threats to the fleeing thieves.  

None of the bullets hit their mark, and the younger man took off after them, sprinting into the dark swamp’s canopy, Dutch following before Hosea could stop him. 

There was nothing else stolen, their satchels left right where they were, what little money and food the three of them had remaining still tucked safely away. 

But without horses, they’d have to go on foot. There was a chance they could have made it to the city by late morning if they’d pushed the animals to near exhaustion, but without a ride...

Hosea closed and gathered up the satchels, dread rising as Dutch and John came trudging back to the camp, defeated and empty-handed, the horses nowhere in sight. 

“They’re gone,” Dutch said, running a hand over his face. “The Count will throw him soon enough, but he’ll probably bolt the other direction.”

“I should have been keeping watch,” John insisted, but Dutch only shook his head. 

“Ain’t your fault. We’ll track them down eventually, but right now we need to figure out how we’re getting out of this swamp.” 

Hosea nodded, already working to fold up the bedrolls. “We’ll have to go on foot. If we leave now--” 

“That’ll take us all day!” John blurted, furious and wide-eyed. 

“At least,” Hosea agreed. “But we don’t have another option. And the more time we waste, the longer it’ll take.”

And with that he threw the two men their bedrolls, slinging his own over his back as he grabbed his satchel, and started down the damp path, the early morning sky turning a light gray as the dawn approached. 

Dutch didn’t disagree, following at Hosea’s side, which meant there were no objections from a frantic John, who kept his gun unholstered and ready as he trailed behind. 

Hosea could feel Dutch’s eyes on him again, quiet and concerned, tensions rising in the heavy air, no sign of civilization as they continued. 

“Hosea…” Dutch started, careful and ambivalent. He spoke slow and gentle, but there was no need for him to finish. Hosea could hear the fear in his voice. 

“It’ll be ok,” he said. “He’ll be ok. We’ll still get there in time.” 

Dutch was silent a moment, turning away to watch the endless road ahead, still miles away from where they needed to be. 

“I hope so.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hosea has lost all his rights but he's doing his best  
> Thank you for reading!


	8. Chapter 8

Arthur couldn’t have been more than fifteen when it happened. He’d been with Dutch and Hosea for a few years at least, enough to consider the men family, to trust them like he’d never been able to trust anyone before. 

It was a strange feeling to not have to constantly watch his back, to be at ease with the people he rode with, to be cared for and relied on. Before them, he’d never been able to imagine what a real family could be. 

They’d found a new place to set up camp, somewhere warm and peaceful, planning on staying there a few weeks at least to rest and recuperate after their latest successful robbery.

He’d woken like he usually did, the sunlight seeping through the crack in his tent, prying Arthur from deep sleep and urging him to start the day. 

Before, Arthur had dreaded the morning. He’d had to wake up quickly, grab what little he had and move before he was found by the law, violent men, or other children. Before he found his family, everything had been a threat. 

Now, he could wake up on his own time. Dutch and Hosea would tease him relentlessly if he slept in too late, commenting on his bed-head and rumpled clothes, but Arthur could never find it in himself to be annoyed. When he’d been with his father, sleeping in had always been met with punishment. 

After Dutch and Hosea made it very clear that if they needed him awake and active they’d simply tell him, Arthur found himself relishing his slow mornings. 

He’d breathe in the crisp air, stretch and sink a little deeper into his blankets, watching the sky brighten until the aroma of coffee finally dragged him out of his tent. 

That morning, however, he couldn’t move. 

His entire body had locked up, frozen, his breaths small and shaky. His chest felt heavy, like something was wrapped around his middle, squeezing ruthlessly. 

He couldn’t  _ move.  _

Terror quickly took over, swarming through his mind, blocking out any reasonable thoughts he might have been able to manage, the panic overwhelming as he struggled uselessly. 

He couldn’t even make a single finger twitch. He felt lightheaded, struggling to get enough air. He tried to call out, to yell for Dutch or Hosea, but his mouth refused to open, like he’d been turned to stone. 

And then he’d realized there was someone else in the room. 

Arthur couldn’t see them, whoever it was having placed themselves just out of his line of sight at the head of his bed, but he could hear their heavy, labored breaths. 

He could feel their eyes on him, looming over his paralyzed body, watching as he lay there, helpless and defenseless, trying desperately to regain control, spiraling into dark horror. 

And then, just registering over the haze of panic, he’d heard something from outside his tent, a shadow moving to cover up the sunlight. 

“Arthur, get up. We’re heading into town.” 

It was Hosea, his voice nearly drowned out by the breathing in his ear. Arthur’s eyes widened, the one freedom he still had, and renewed his attempts at crying out. 

“You in there?”

How could Hosea not  _ hear _ whatever else was in the tent? Why wasn’t he charging inside, guns ready, freeing Arthur from whatever had happened to him while he slept?

The breathing was loud and raspy, almost animal-like. Inhuman. But the older man didn’t even sound concerned, only exasperated at an unresponsive child. 

The tent flap was suddenly pulled back, Hosea stepping inside. Arthur tried to meet his gaze, but his body still refused to obey, and he could only make out the top of his head. 

“Arthur, wake up.” He sounded strangely unfazed, worryingly calm, hovering by the tent’s entrance. “Come on, it’s late.” 

If Arthur hadn’t been so caught up in the terror of his body deciding it no longer belonged to him, he would have been trying to figure out why the  _ hell  _ Hosea couldn’t see whatever monstrosity was looming over his cot. 

_ “Arthur.”  _

Hosea raising his voice must have broken something free, because Arthur managed to part his lips, a pathetic groan escaping, barely audible next to the wheezing gasps above his head.

But somehow, Hosea must have heard it, furrowing his brow as he moved towards the cot, finally meeting Arthurs wide, terrified eyes. 

“Arthur?” Hosea dropped to his knees, hands hovering above Arthur’s frozen body, his own eyes widening in panic when he finally saw the problem. “Hey, it’s ok, Arthur. I’m right here.” 

He finally let his hands drop, clutching Arthur’s shoulders. The contact seemed to do something, Arthur able to breathe a little easier, but he was still frozen in place like a statue. 

“Come on, Arthur. Focus on me. Try to come back, son. I’ve got you.” 

Arthur tried, frantically fighting to raise a hand and reach for Hosea, but he was stuck to his bed, tied down by invisible forces, and there was nothing he could do. 

His vision suddenly grew blurry, and it took him a moment to realize there were tears in his eyes. 

And then Hosea’s hold tightened, shaking Arthur roughly, the back of his head hitting the pillow, and it was like he’d been dunked in a lake of ice. 

All at once, the invisible bonds that had held him shattered, the ragged breathing above him disappearing in the blink of an eye. 

Arthur’s hands shot forward to clutch at Hosea’s shirt, shivering violently as he pushed himself away from the bed, struggling like if he stayed on his cot another moment it would trap him all over again. 

Hosea seemed to understand, wrapping an arm around Arthur’s back and pulling him away from the blankets, holding the boy close to his chest as he lowered them both to the ground. 

“You’re ok,” he soothed, rubbing circles along his back. “You’re ok, it’s over. It’s over, son, I’ve got you.” 

Arthur almost didn't realize he was crying, sobs escaping in small, breathy hiccups, tears staining Hosea’s shirt. He buried his face in the man’s shoulder, refusing to look at the place that had been his prison, terrified of what he might see.

“He awake yet?” It was Dutch’s voice, growing louder, the tent once again peeled back. “How long is he--?” 

Dutch stopped halfway inside, faltering as soon as he saw the scene before him, eyes immediately softening as he let the tent flap close. 

For a moment, Arthur felt the first prickle of shame at being found like this, like it was Lyle standing over him. It was quickly destroyed by the gentleness in Dutch’s tone. 

“Arthur?” He carefully stepped forward, sending a worried glance to Hosea, lowering himself to his knees. “Hey, you ok? What happened?” 

The tent was silent, waiting patiently for an answer, and Arthur forced himself to take an unsteady breath. He pulled away from Hosea, furiously wiping at the tears still streaming down his face, the trembling refusing to slow. 

When he finally found his voice, it was small and shaky. “I...I couldn’t move.” 

“You had a bad dream,” Dutch clarified, frowning when Arthur shook his head, still refusing to look back at the bed that had become his prison. 

“No.  _ No,  _ I--I was awake. I woke up and I couldn’t...I couldn’t  _ move.  _ And I felt--I felt someone watching me and I couldn’t…” 

He trailed off, suddenly feeling stupid and childish, waiting for laughter or dismissal, orders to get dressed and get to work. 

But Hosea only tightened his hold, and Dutch reached forward to take his hand. He was held still once again, kept firmly in place, but this was different. 

He wasn’t trapped, he was protected. He could move if he wanted to. The breathing around him kept him grounded, the beating of Hosea’s heart let him focus on where he was. 

He wasn’t trapped. He could move. He was safe as long as he was with his family. 

Dutch waited until Arthur’s breathing had evened out before speaking again, squeezing the boy’s hand, smiling when their gazes locked. 

“I’m so sorry, son. It’s happened to me, too.” 

Arthur blinked, taken aback, almost doubtful. “Really?” 

“Really,” Dutch said. “I was younger than you, but...I remember that feeling. I remember being scared. It’s awful, I know. But there’s nothing here. Nothing’s going to hurt you.” 

Arthur swallowed, biting his lip when it began to quiver. He’d been in plenty of terrifying situations, his short life far from comfortable, but never anything like that. He’d never had his freedom ripped away so viciously. 

And Dutch had taught him to cherish freedom every second he was still breathing. 

“Will it…” he paused, absently moving his hands to clutch Hosea’s sleeves again. “Will it happen again?” 

“With any luck,” Dutch said. “Hopefully not. But if it does, one of us will always come get you. We wouldn’t leave you like that, would we, Hosea?” 

Hosea smiled down at him, warm and reassuring. “Of course not.” 

They both sounded so sure of their own promises, so safe and comforting, and Arthur finally risked a glance over his shoulder. His cot was empty, the blankets strewn, the rest of the tent empty except for the three of them. 

It was still terrifying, the taunting memory, the awful feeling, but it would have been unbearable if there was no one to save him. 

He often found himself wondering if it had been like that for Dutch, alone and scared, forced to slowly pull himself back from what had felt so close to death, to a permanent prison in his own body. 

“Thank you,” he said, the words nowhere near close to conveying the gratitude he felt. “S-sorry for--” 

“Don’t even _think_ about  it, Arthur,” Hosea warned, pulling back to help Arthur find his footing. “You did nothing wrong.”

“Come on,” Dutch said, opening the tent as he stood. “Let’s put you by the fire and get some breakfast in you. You’ll feel better.” 

Arthur hesitated before following them into the early afternoon air. “But you said we needed to go into town and--” 

“It can wait,” he assured, hand on Arthur’s shoulder, guiding him to the crackling fire. “And it’s nothing you need to worry about right now.” 

“We’ll take care of it tomorrow,” Hosea said. “After a scare like that, you need to take it easy.” 

“But--” 

“But  _ nothing.” _ Dutch’s illusion of annoyance was broken by his fond smile. “You’re ok, son.” 

It had been ok until the sun went down, and Arthur had nearly forgotten how to breathe amidst his fear, nearly losing himself to panic awakened by trying to go back to sleep in his tent. 

But he’d insisted he was fine, waiting until Dutch and Hosea excused themselves and disappeared into their own tents before gathering up his blanket and planting himself by the dying fire. 

It had been far from comfortable, his shivering keeping him awake half the long night, but at least he’d been free. 

He’d done that for days, always feeling like he was being watched whenever he was in his tent, trapped and suffocated all over again, but it had been put to an abrupt stop after he was caught shivering in the frigid night air. 

Hosea, terrified the cold would make Arthur sick, had gathered the blankets from the dirt and dragged them back to Arthur’s tent, tossing them on his cot without a word. 

The older man had then pulled up a chair, grabbed a book from his own tent, and stayed at Arthur’s bedside until he drifted off to sleep. 

He’d felt ridiculous, keeping Hosea from his much needed sleep, all because of a childish fear. Arthur had, unsuccessfully tried to tell Hosea he was fine, that he could sleep on his own, but his lingering uneasiness must have been easier to read than he’d thought. 

As embarrassed as he’d been, Hosea’s presence had helped, chasing away memories of helpless terror. The reminder that he wasn’t alone, that if he was trapped again someone would free him, was what finally lulled him to sleep, conquering the fear.

It had only taken a couple of days for Arthur to finally relax, his sleep once again peaceful, finally convincing Hosea to return to his own tent with promises of calling out if he needed anything. 

 

But now it was happening again, and Arthur was struggling to cling to the memories of comfort and safety, the only thing keeping him from losing himself. 

He was calling Hosea’s name, crying out for Dutch, his screams once again reduced to weak, breathy gasps. There was no real sound coming out, and all he could do was frantically mouth his family’s names. 

When he’d woken, clawing and dragging himself from the drugged slumber he’d been put under, Arthur found that what little movement he’d still been granted had been ruthlessly taken away. 

Before, he’d been able to raise and turn his head. It wasn’t much, but he could at least get a look at his surroundings and see who was coming, as helpless to defend himself as he was. 

But they’d put another strap, just as heavy as the ones around his arms and legs, around his forehead, keeping him pressed against the mattress no matter how hard he fought. 

The new burst of panic, sudden and painful, sent him spiraling into a fit of coughs, ripping from his restrained chest, trapped body convulsing. 

He could no longer hunch over or curl in on himself to help cope with the pain, forced to lay there and thrash against his bonds, choking as blood splattered across his chin and slid down his burning throat. 

It felt like hours, days even, an endless attack stretching on for eternity. He was on fire, ribs shattering, blood turning to ice. 

But the universe wouldn’t let him die just yet. The coughs eventually subsided, leaving him gasping and shivering against the bed, still trying to raise his head. 

“They ain’t gonna let you go if you keep acting like that.” 

Arthur almost didn’t hear the voice, almost convinced himself it was just a hallucination. But he could hear the uneven breathing from the bed next to him, the familiar, raspy sound limited by diseased lungs. 

He couldn’t see the man, but he’d caught a glimpse of the other beds lined against the wall, and the other patient couldn't be more than a few feet away. 

“Act...act like  _ what?”  _ he demanded, flinching at how weak his quiet voice was. There was a scoff from the bed, interrupted by familiar coughs. 

“You was still fighting in your sleep,” the patient explained. “Screaming and yelling...the doctor was worried you was gonna hurt yourself. Have to keep you still until you can calm yourself down.” 

“If they want me  _ calm  _ they shouldn’t strap me down like a damn a prisoner.” 

“They think you’re crazy, son,” the man explained. “And no one here blames ‘em. You fight like an animal. They’re only trying to help.” 

Arthur kept tugging at his restraints, his panicking mind refusing to let him stop. “This ain’t  _ helping.  _ I need to go  _ home.”  _

The man coughed again, loud and rattling. “This is your home, son.” 

“You don’t understand, I can’t--I can’t be here. I need to go back to my family, they--” 

“You don’t have a family, kid,” he said. “And if you do, they don’t want you no more. Nobody wants people like us.” 

Arthur tried to shake his head, but even that small freedom had been brutally ripped away, the strap keeping him firmly in place. His eyes blurred with tears, obscuring his vision like they had so many years ago. 

“No.” His voice cracked, holding back sobs. “No, they...I wasn’t supposed to  _ be  _ here. They’re--they're coming for me.” 

The patient sighed, and Arthur could distinctly hear him moving around on his bed. “Whatever you need to tell yourself to keep living, son.” 

He sounded tired, defeated and old, and Arthur suddenly found himself wishing to put a face to the voice. There was someone else who had been put in this place, someone else suffering from his pain. 

“You tied down, too?” 

There was a snort, cut off quickly by a wheezy cough. “Me? No. No, I ain’t the one flailing around trying to kill everyone.” 

“I ain’t…” he trailed off, knowing denial would just make him look worse. “They gotta let me go. I--I can’t be--” 

“There ain’t no getting out, son. They leave you here to rot and it's for your own damn good.” 

The man was already choking on his words by the time he lost himself to the new wave of coughs, the attack louder than the ones before, leaving him gasping, silently begging for the air he couldn’t get. 

Arthur desperately wanted to see him, wanted to see what the sickness looked like to observers, what he looked like to his family. 

He wanted to know if he was just as weak and pathetic as he felt, or if he was pitiful and sad. Maybe he was better off in this place, after all. 

Minutes passed, but the coughing didn’t stop. It only seemed to grow worse, the sounds weaker, and Arthur’s eyes widened. 

“He needs help!” he called, or tried to call, his own voice broken and silenced by squeezing lungs. “He needs--” 

There were footsteps rushing closer, muffled voices and shouts, and Arthur’s heart hammered painfully in his chest as he was forced to stare at the ceiling and listen to the strangers come closer. 

He kept pulling at the restraints, frantic and hurting, wanting to see the man in the bed beside him, wanting to see if there was any chance of a dignified death, or if this would be his fate, choking alone in a strange bed as the infection finally killed him. 

And then there was someone beside his head, and Arthur thought he saw a glint of silver. 

“Get that one out of here,” a voice said, loud enough to make Arthur flinch. “We need to put this one under for the rest of the night. He’s disturbing other patients.” 

Arthur tried to shake his head, reminded once again just how hopelessly trapped he was. “I wasn’t--” 

“I’m giving him a larger dosage,” the doctor explained, ignoring the pleading. “Hopefully he can handle it.” 

There was no more warning after that, no sympathy or gentle touch as the needle was once again plunged into his neck, something cold seeping deep into his veins. 

He couldn’t struggle, could no longer find his voice to speak around the blinding fear, forced to lay there and let them drug him, ignoring the tears pooling in his eyes. 

The drug was merciless, grabbing him by the throat and dragging him under, the darkness swallowing him like a wave. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay! I was on the road without wifi for two days  
> Also thanks to Nyrandrea for giving me the idea to compare this to sleep paralysis, I really loved writing that connection!  
> Thank you for reading!


	9. Chapter 9

If Arthur didn’t make it through this, if he’d already been killed by the time they made it to him, John would never forgive himself. 

It was his fault the horses had been stolen, despite the guilty look that had been plaguing Hosea’s eyes since they’d set off. He should have had the sense to volunteer to keep watch while setting up camp in unfamiliar territory. 

And now here he was, legs burning as he trudged through the wet ground, paying for his stupidity, his mistake just putting Arthur’s life in more danger. 

“How much farther?” he asked, faltering when Dutch whirled back around to face him. 

“I don’t  _ know,  _ John. You ain’t the only one who’s never been through here.” 

“I was just asking--” 

“And I told you, I don’t  _ know.  _ So keep your mouth shut before someone else finds us and steals the  _ rest  _ of our shit.” 

John fell silent after that, tightening the grip on his pistol. They were all on edge, worn down, worried, and exhausted, and he knew Dutch didn’t mean to come off as harsh, even if John deserved it. 

They’d been walking since the morning’s first light, the moon still hovering behind the trees as the dawn approached. And now the sky was dark again, evening chasing away the day’s warmth long ago, the moon high in the sky. 

They would have to risk traveling through the night. They couldn’t afford to delay any longer. They should have gotten to Arthur hours ago, already working on getting him safely back home to recover. 

Instinctively, John looked to Hosea for comfort, for motivation and assurances that things would still work themselves out. The older man had been a pillar of strength since Arthur’s diagnosis. 

But now, Hosea was deathly quiet, eyes glued to the ground, expression unreadable as he moved forward, ignoring the way his boots sunk into the mud. 

Dutch must have noticed it, too, quickening his pace to match the older man’s speed. “Hosea?” 

When there was no response, Dutch reached out to touch his arm, earning a surprised hum, as Hosea’s head shot up. “What?” 

“You ok?” It was a pointless question, one that had been asked all too often these past weeks, only an invitation for false optimism. “You’re quiet.” 

“Something you want me to say?” 

John winced, hating the icy tone that had, unfortunately, become almost expected since Blackwater. Dutch and Hosea seemed to be constantly at each other’s throats, and the stress of their latest situation wasn’t helping.

“No,” Dutch said darkly. “We’re just--” 

But the argument that was inevitably surfacing was cut short as quickly as it had started, the three of them falling silent as a new sound filled the air. 

It was a wagon, clear as day, the wheels turning slowly in the heavy mud, tired horses snorting and whinnying in protest of the harsh weather.

“You hear that?” John asked, knowing they did, not bothering to wait for a response before taking off down the path, slipping his gun back in his holster, only able to hope for the best. 

In the end, they’d been ridiculously lucky. 

The owner of the wagon could have easily been Raiders or lawmen, but John had stumbled across a farmer from the nearby settlement of Lagras, the man on his way to the city to sell his freshly skinned pelts and picked fruit. 

He’d said he knew of the sanatorium, offhandedly explaining that he’d had two children die in their walls, which John decided was the worst thing he could have said. 

“It’s just outside the city gates,” the man said, oblivious to the way Dutch and Hosea tensed and John’s eyes dropped to the ground. “I can take you folks there if you want.” 

They’d all been lucky, because John was sure that Dutch would have pulled out his gun and taken the wagon by force if the man had been anything other than friendly. At this point, John wouldn’t put it past Hosea to do the same. 

“One of you folks sick?” the man asked as they piled into the back, carefully maneuvering around sealed crates and bags of food. 

“A friend of ours,” Dutch corrected. “Someone else put him in there. We’re bringing him back home.”

The man laughed, whipping the horses to pick up the pace. “Ain’t getting no one out of that place. They won’t let you.” 

“It’s not a prison,” Hosea argued. “They can’t just...keep someone in there against their will.” 

“The city’s real strict with how they treat their sick,” the man explained. “They want their men healthy and the sick as far away as possible. They barely even allow visitors.” 

“They’ll let us in,” Dutch said, leaning back against the wagon’s side. “He’s coming home.” 

The man was still chortling, chuckling to himself, the sound like a punch to John’s gut. “Say what you want, sir. But sick men never last long. Trust me, they ain’t worth much trouble.” 

  
  


The sanatorium looked more like a prison than a place for the sick to be healed. The building was huge, the towering walls made of dark red bricks, the air thin and gray from the city smoke. 

It had taken them the rest of the long night to make it to the asylum, the man in the wagon dropping them off less than a mile away, claiming he couldn’t be late to the market.

Dawn had nearly passed by the time they made it to the entrance, the sun steadily rising above the distant buildings. 

The front gates were unlocked, not that it would have stopped them if they were, but there was a man positioned at the front doors, shotgun slung over his back. 

“A hospital with a guard,” Hosea muttered, following Dutch down the dirt path. “I’m sure that puts suffering folks at ease.” 

John had heard stories, everyone had. Some said patients in asylums were drugged, others told tales of knives carving into their infected lungs. There were talks of experiments and untested surgeries, all treatments akin to torture that only killed victims faster than their illness. 

“What if they don’t let us in?” he asked softly, refusing to meet the watching guard’s eyes. 

“They will,” Dutch said, before raising his voice, familiar, charming venom dripping from his tone. “Excuse me, sir?” 

The guard raised a curious eyebrow, but he didn’t look alarmed. John doubted the place had many people trying to break in. 

“Can I help you?” 

Dutch kept his hands behind his back, shoulders relaxed, easy smile plastered on his face. “I’m sure you can. We’re just here to visit a friend of ours.” 

The guard shook his head. “Can’t do that, sir. No visitors allowed inside today.” 

John’s heart sank, but Dutch hardly looked discouraged. Hosea remained at his side, stiff and silent, face uncharacteristically blank. 

“When are you allowing visitors?” 

“No clue,” the guard said, shrugging. “Ain’t my job. Come back another time.” 

“Sir.” Dutch lowered his voice, smile threatening to drop as he stepped forward. “He’s...he’s very sick. It’s important that we--” 

“Everyone in that building’s sick,” the guard snapped. “But people ain’t allowed in, so I ain’t letting you in. So you can--” 

Dutch had a hand over the man’s mouth, moving so fast John almost didn’t register what was happening. 

He grabbed the man by the collar, throwing him backwards into the wall, his head slamming into the bricks with a sickening crack. Dutch stepped back, letting the limp body fall to the ground. 

“Jesus, Dutch,” John hissed, spinning around to glance over the thankfully empty courtyard. “How about a warning next time?” 

“Get him out of sight,” Hosea ordered, unfazed. “Then get in there and start looking If you find Arthur, get him outside. However you can.” 

John nodded, recognizing the unsaid words. These people were innocent, only doing their jobs, but nothing would stand in between them and the missing piece of their family. 

“We’ll meet back here,” Dutch said, pushing the door open and glancing inside. “Twenty minutes. Hosea and I will check upstairs, John you stay on the first floor. Be careful.” 

Dutch and Hosea slipped inside while John hooked his hands under the unconscious guard’s arms, dragging him around the corner, shoving his body under the branches of a dead bush. 

He’d wake up in a few hours. The blow had been near fatal, but Dutch wouldn’t kill these people. Not unless he had to.

Satisfied that no one would see the body unless they knew where to look, John lowered his hat and stepped into the sanatorium, closing the door behind him. 

The security would probably be minimal. Nobody wanted in, but John was sure there were countless men and women who wanted out. And if they were sick enough to be put inside, they wouldn’t pose much of a threat. 

The air was thick and warm, plagued with the stench of sickness, choking coughs and wheezes echoing through the corridors. They all sounded the same, all sending chills down John’s spine. 

He passed countless rooms, all filled with white beds. Some were occupied by patients, others were mostly empty or appearing completely abandoned. 

John peered inside each one, holding his breath as he scanned the room, heart sinking a little deeper every time there was no sign of Arthur. 

And then, from the end of the corridor, John heard a door open and close, swift footsteps pounding against the floor, drawing closer and closer. 

He ducked through one of the doorways and pressed himself against the wall, the patients in the room pointedly ignoring his presence, peering out of the threshold. 

The man, who John assumed was a doctor judging by his white coat, had his head down as he walked, peeling gloves away from his hands, shoving them into his pocket. 

John watched the man turn the corner, waiting until his brisk footsteps faded before stepping back into the hall, starting for the room the doctor had left behind, heart hammering painfully in his chest. 

He paused, hand on the door, glancing once more over his shoulder before pushing it open and stepping inside. 

For an aching moment, John thought he’d once again found the wrong room. It seemed empty, the beds either untouched or the blankets and pillows strewn across the mattresses, the air still and silent.

He was running out of places to look, and if Dutch or Hosea didn’t find any sign of him... 

And then there was a whimper, so quiet he almost didn’t hear it, tearing through the tranquil room. John’s gaze flew to the source of the noise, realizing abruptly why he hadn’t seen it at first. 

The figure on the bed was motionless, on his back against the white bed, completely stiff, almost invisible tucked away in the corner. John’s heart clenched, recognizing the dirt-stained clothes, breaking out into a run when he saw the man’s face. 

“Arthur!” 

The reaction was immediate, Arthur’s shaky breath catching in his throat, hands balling into fists, and John’s relief turned to rage when he saw what they’d done. 

Arthur was tied to the bed, restraints around his wrists and ankles, a heavy leather strap secured across his chest, another wrapped around his forehead. He was helpless, visibly terrified, left at the mercy of strangers. 

“John?” His eyes were wide, forced to stare at the ceiling, unable to turn his head to the sound of approaching footsteps.  _ “John?”  _

He’d never heard Arthur so scared in his entire life. From the day he’d met him, both young, angry and careless, John nothing but a scraggly child thrust into the care of an inexperienced older brother, he’d never seen Arthur as anything other than unmovable. He was unwavering, indestructible, everything John found himself striving to be. Everything he never could. 

And now here he was, pulling relentlessly at unmoving bonds, trembling, voice shaking so badly he could barely get a single word out, calling John’s name like he was his last chance at survival. 

And right now, John supposed he was. 

“It’s me, Arthur.” He was at the bedside in an instant, dropping to his knees. “You ok, brother?” 

“J-John?” he asked again, still searching desperately, and John moved closer until Arthur’s eyes could lock onto his. “Th-the hell you doing here?” 

John forced a smile, one hand going to Arthur’s chest, the other cradling his jaw before he could stop himself. Anything to assure himself the other man was still breathing. 

“Saving your ass,” he said. “You really have the worst luck, don’t you?” 

“Guess we’re even now.” 

John’s vision unexpectedly blurred, and he quickly looked away. “Hardly.” 

Arthur looked like he was going to reply, but his eyes suddenly widened, inhale turning into a ragged gasp. 

_ “Get back--”  _

He barely managed the weak words before he broke into horrible coughs, somehow worse than they’d been back at camp. The city air, on top of the beating the Braithwaite boys had no doubt given him, couldn’t have made things any better. 

As much as it felt like a betrayal, John did as he was told and scurried back, standing beside the bed as he was forced to watch and wait for the attack to pass. 

Tears were already streaming down Arthur’s reddening face as he struggled and fought for air, thrashing against his restraints, unable to move as he convulsed and choked, the coughs ripping through his weakened body. 

For one, heart-stopping moment, John thought this might be it. Arthur would never be able to catch his breath. His lungs would beg for air he couldn’t get, and he’d slowly close his eyes forever, John stuck standing there and watching, helpless, seconds too late. 

But then Arthur sucked in a gasp, small and uneven, but still enough air to make the coughs gradually subside. 

“Arthur?” he called, carefully taking a step forward. “You good?” 

_ “No.”  _ He coughed again, wincing, letting out a shuddering breath. “I’m dying.” 

“You ain’t--” 

“Can you--” His eyes softened when John leaned over him again, taking in another breath. “C-can you get me out of here, Marston?” 

John nodded, swallowing around the lump in his throat, pushing back his sorrow. He could deal with his own worry when Arthur was safe. 

“Of course.” 

He scooted closer, reaching for the strap around Arthur’s head. His fingers had just grazed the edges when he froze, feeling someone else step into the room. 

“Sir?” 

John met Arthur’s eyes, trying to calm the older man’s alarm with a reassuring smile laced with false confidence. 

“Sir, you can’t be in here. I’m going to have to ask you to leave.” 

He felt Arthur tense up at the man’s words, and John wondered just how aware he really was. He slowly turned around, finding himself face to face with the doctor he’d seen in the hall. 

“The patient needs to be moved,” John said, trying to put himself in Dutch’s shoes. The man’s charisma had always been his deadliest weapon. “The doctor told me he wanted him down the hall.” 

The man tilted his head. “Which doctor?” 

“The, uh...the other one. Not you.” But charisma had never been John’s strong suit. 

“Sir,” the doctor said again, slow, cautious. “That man is dangerous. He needs to be kept under sedatives. I’m going to have to ask you to leave.” 

Arthur’s breaths quickened, and John could practically feel the panic radiating off of him. “Don’t let them--” 

John reached behind him, resting his hand atop Arthur’s, itching to undo the bonds. He knew Arthur, knew captivity like this was torture. 

“He’s not dangerous,” John argued, knowing there was no chance of lying his way out of this one. “He’s sick and he’s scared. You need to let me--” 

“You need to leave,” the doctor repeated. “I won’t ask you again. Let us do our jobs, or I’ll be forced to call security.” 

“This ain’t helping him,” John said, squeezing Arthur’s restrained hand. “I don’t know what you’re doing, but he’s  _ terrified. _ Let me take him home.” 

The doctor crossed his arms, unimpressed. “I need to sedate him again. You need to--” 

And then there was a gunshot, sudden and echoing, the doctor gasping as he stumbled and fell forward, a puddle of crimson blossoming in his back. 

Hosea was shoving his way into the room, gun at his side, brushing past John before the doctor even hit the ground. He hardly seemed to have realized what he’d done. 

“Hosea?” Arthur called as soon as the older man was at his bedside, hands lowering to cradle Arthur’s face. 

“You’re ok,” Hosea promised. “We’ve got you, son, we’ve got you. John, help me. Hurry.” 

He was already fiddling with the strap on Arthur’s forehead, and John moved to undo the ones around his legs. He could hear the distant, muffled shouting from somewhere within the building, panic awakened by the gunshot. 

Arthur arched his head up as soon as he was able, watching as John and Hosea worked on the rest of the straps, pulling his legs away the second they were free. 

He reached for the last strap on his chest when his arms were undone, fingers shaking so badly he couldn’t get a proper grip on the metal clasps. Hosea gently took his hands in his own, pulling them away while John worked on removing the last of the restraints. 

“There you go,” John said, moving back as Arthur scrambled to sit up. Hosea went to support him, arm around the younger man’s back. “We need to go.” 

They both nodded, Arthur’s almost too small to see. Hosea squeezed his shoulder, frowning when the commotion outside grew louder. “Can you walk?” 

“Th-they...they drugged me,” Arthur explained, and John’s anger returned in a flash when a shaky hand went to his neck. “I don’t know what--” 

“It’s ok,” Hosea said, taking Arthur’s arm and draping it over his own shoulder, motioning for John to do the same. “You’re ok now. We’ll figure it out.” 

Arthur said nothing, and John found himself wondering if he believed a single word of encouragement coming from anyone. Perhaps he never did. Hosea wasn’t normally one to offer false hope, but nothing about these past weeks had been normal. 

But they had gotten Arthur back. They still had time to save him. 

Even with Hosea’s support he was still barely standing upright, legs wobbling dangerously, and John pressed himself against Arthur’s other side, taking his arm. 

Trying and failing to block out the painful, rattling breaths, he nodded to Hosea, the three of them moving around the doctor’s body and out the door. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry there's been a bit more of a wait for this story! There will probably be 2 or 3 more chapters and then I have a bunch of oneshots and shorter stories planned.   
> Thank you for reading and commenting!   
> I̶t̶'̶s̶ ̶3̶a̶m̶ ̶y̶o̶u̶ ̶g̶u̶y̶s̶


	10. Chapter 10

The world was suddenly too big, everything moving too fast. With how desperately he’d begged for air, for movement, now the freedom was too much, too overwhelming, and Arthur still couldn’t quite get the hang of breathing again. 

Everything was spinning, taking its time to piece back together, rendering him incapable of offering any help to the men at his sides, dragging him forward. 

But it was too real to be another dream. His mind wouldn’t trick him this cruelly, even with the drugs swirling through his blood. 

John was here, and so was Hosea. They hadn’t left him behind. He was still needed, useless as he was. They were taking him home. Assuming he survived that long. 

And he was fairly sure someone was dead. He’d heard a gunshot, cutting off promises of sedatives and isolation, and caught a glimpse of that god-awful doctor bleeding out on the ground. 

It seemed Dutch wasn’t the only one losing his head lately.

“What are we doing?” he heard John ask, everything distant and echoey, like he was floating underwater. “We don’t have any horses.” 

But Arthur could hear the words, could understand that the fools had broken him out with no plan, no escape, and were likely going to get them all thrown in jail. 

But given the option, Arthur supposed he’d prefer dying in a cell than tied down to a hospital bed. 

“Let’s just get outside,” Hosea said, too calm for a man that had just murdered in cold blood. “Then we’ll--” 

_ “Hey!”  _ The new voice, furious and fast approaching, could only be some of the asylum’s limited security. “The hell are you--?” 

There was another gunshot, catching Arthur off guard just as much as before, and the voice was cut off in an instant. 

“So much for doing this quietly.” That was Dutch, and what little strength Arthur had in his legs faded, the relief hitting like a punch to the gut. He hadn’t realized how important Dutch’s promise to stay had been to him. “He ok?” 

Hosea and John were both talking at once, their voices too loud, saying something about drugs and confinement, slowly pulling Arthur further and further down the hall. 

He took in a shaky breath, suddenly determined to prove he wasn’t dead just yet, No matter how close he was. His voice was scratchy and broken, but loud enough to silence the men around him. 

“D...Dutch--” 

“I’m here, Arthur.” Dutch’s voice was closer, cutting through the haze. “Give him to me. John, take the rear. Shoot anyone who tries to stop us.” 

The two presences at his sides vanished, and suddenly someone was grabbing him by the waist and lifting him off the ground, draping him over their shoulders. 

“I-I can walk,” he insisted, as much as he didn’t want to protest. Any other time, he’d downright refuse to be manhandled like this, refusing to run the risk of slowing them down. 

But now, when everything hurt and his body was still remembering how to move on its own, he knew his quiet argument would be ignored. Especially after he couldn’t stop himself from groaning, reaching out to clutch at Dutch’s arm. 

“Just let us get you out of here,” he said, quickening his pace. “Hang in there for me, son.” 

Arthur nodded, though really, he wasn’t sure how much longer he could last. Between the city air making his lungs burn, the beating he barely remembered, the drugs and lack of morphine he’d grown accustomed to, it was growing impossible to see himself come back from this. 

He’d known it would come eventually. A part of him had just assumed he’d have a bit more time. 

Everything happened in a blur, the world becoming more difficult to focus on, but Arthur was fairly sure they hadn’t killed anyone else yet. The air suddenly grew warmer, a bit easier to breathe in. 

But Arthur hadn’t stopped shivering since John had untied him. And whether it was from the fear, pain, or the drugs, it was only making the ache in his ribs worse. 

There was the crunch of gravel, the wind beating against his face, his family silent around him as they moved, leaving shouts from the sanatorium behind. There was the pounding of something that sounded like horses fleeing, too far away to be of any help, but close enough to be a threat. 

“They’ll be going for the law,” Hosea said. “We’re running out of time.” 

“Over there!” Dutch was back in control, urgent, just as he always was in situations like this. The hint of panic in his voice had to just be Arthur’s imagination. “John, get us that damn horse!” 

Footsteps ran past them and Dutch quickened his pace, jostling Arthur enough that he thought he might have blacked out. The gravel beneath their feet had turned to dirt, and he couldn’t hear the shouting anymore. 

“Take him,” Dutch was saying, grabbing Arthur’s hands and prying them away from his shirt. “Get him the hell out of the city and find a place to lay low.” 

John panic was easier to read. “But--” 

“We’ll be right behind you,” Hosea promised. “Get away from the law, and stay alive.  _ Both  _ of you.” 

There were hands on his shoulders and back, Dutch lowering while Hosea carefully pulled Arthur from his shoulders. He was being lifted again, and his feet found the saddle, hands finding John’s awaiting arms as he steadied himself. 

He couldn’t even try to stay upright, slouching forward, finding himself leaned against John’s back. The younger man didn’t complain, a testament to how bad things were. 

Arthur peeled his eyes open- he hadn’t even remembered closing them- Dutch and Hosea’s faces swimming into focus. They were scared, but the apprehension was washed out by their resolve. They were all making it out of this alive. 

He opened his mouth to speak, to thank them, maybe to say goodbye if things didn’t go their way. But he wasn’t given time to build up the strength to form words. 

Dutch brought a hand down, slamming it against the horse’s back, hard enough for the animal to scream in protest and lurch forward. 

“Don’t fall off,” John warned and Arthur, setting dignity aside, wrapped his arms around the younger’s waist. “I don’t think we’re getting out of this without a fight.” 

Arthur could only hum, nodding in agreement. Veering into the city streets would send them right into the law’s path, but sneaking around and riding into the wilderness would make them easily noticeable for anyone looking. It was just a matter of choosing the risk they wanted to take. 

“Hope--” he paused to clear his throat, swallowing against the coppery taste in his mouth. “Hope you know what you’re doing, Marston.” 

“Yeah,” John said, pushing the horse a little faster. “Me too.” 

“You were a shit rider, you know. When you were a kid.” 

John scoffed, shoulders tense against Arthur’s weight. “You better hope I’ve gotten better. Or we’re both dead.” 

And Arthur hadn’t really thought about that, yet, too occupied with his own fear and fading adrenaline. Dutch, Hosea, and John could die today. They could get themselves killed for the life of a dying man. 

Saving him would do nothing but buy him a bit more time, and yet they were happily willing to set their own safety aside, to jump in the line of fire, just to give him a few more days at most. 

He’d wanted so badly for them to bring him home, he’d selfishly forgotten what it might cost. He’d almost forgotten he wasn’t worth it. 

“Over there!” Arthur’s heart sank at the words, the new voice carrying across the field they rode across, a swarm of horses riding closer. “Stop and put your hands up or we start shooting!” 

John muttered under his breath, too quiet to hear, though Arthur had no doubt it something that would send Miss Grimshaw into a fit. 

Four lawmen, probably more on the way, were riding towards them from the edge of the city, two with their guns already drawn. 

“Think they’ll take pity on a dying man?” he asked, frowning at the way John stayed deathly quiet. “Maybe they won’t want to get their cells infected.”

“They’ll just take you back to the sanatorium,” John said, and Arthur froze. 

Because that was worse than any end he could meet. He’d be alone, and he’d be helpless. He wouldn’t have his family at his side. He’d rather get gunned down right there and then. 

“We ain’t asking again!” one of the lawmen called. “The two of you put your hands up or I  _ will  _ shoot!” 

John took a breath, glancing over his shoulder to meet Arthur’s eyes. “Ready?” 

Arthur nodded, quite literally placing his life in John’s hands. There were definitely worse ways to die. “Go for it, Marston.” 

John nodded, sent one last glance to the fast approaching lawmen, and spurred his horse forward with a wordless yell. 

The gunfire broke out immediately, and Arthur had no choice but to hold John tighter as the horse veered from right to left, its fear driving it faster than any of John’s furious orders. 

“Might have been safer to risk getting into the city,” John said, breathless. “It’s too open out here.” 

“Just get us into the trees.” The tone was a painful reminder to the years he had spent as an older brother, to robberies gone wrong, to guiding a terrified child through a deadly situation. 

John was the one saving his life now, but in a way, nothing had changed. Arthur was still his brother, still here to help, to keep him calm, to guide him through. 

But one of the shots was bound to hit its mark eventually. 

Without a word of warning, Arthur reached around to grab the gun off John’s belt, ripping it from its holster, willing his hands to stop shaking. 

With one arm still wrapped securely around the other man, Arthur turned and aimed for the nearest pursuers head. 

He missed, aim altered by pain and exhaustion, but the bullet buried itself into the horse’s side, sending both the animal and its rider crashing to the ground.   

“How you doing back there?” John asked, concern genuine as Arthur fired again, only managing to hit a man in the leg. It slowed him down, but he didn’t stop riding. 

“Fine,” Arthur lied, praying his body wouldn’t break down into another coughing fit. He’d doom them both if he lost control now. “Just get us into the trees.” 

They were nearing the forest, low hanging clusters of branches and leaves the only cover in sight. And assuming John didn’t send them crashing straight into a tree trunk, they might have a chance at losing their pursuers.

Arthur kept firing, by some miracle managing to down one more lawmen before John barked a warning and they slipped into the forest’s brush. 

It took him a moment, ducking his head as branches scraped his face, to notice the ground hear was wet but not swampy, the trees were thinner, and the air was crisper. 

“We’re going the wrong way,” he muttered, all energy sucked from his voice. “Camp’s the other way.” 

“Oh, I’m  _ sorry,”  _ John snapped. “Do you want me to turn  _ around?”  _

“No.” He hadn’t even really meant to speak aloud. He just wasn’t sure he’d be around long enough to make it back to the rest of his family. “Just don’t want you getting us lost.” 

“We ain’t getting lost,” John said. And then, as if he heard what Arthur left unsaid, added, “And we moved camp. It ain’t far.” 

They both flinched when another gunshot rang out behind them, thoughts of getting home set aside. They could worry about that when they survived.

_ If  _ they survived. 

Arthur knew the odds, and he knew he was nothing but a disadvantage. Despite how much weight he’d unintentionally lost, he was still slowing the horse down. If John was on his own, he’d have a much better chance. And Arthur could serve as some sort of distraction. 

“John--” 

“Shut up, Arthur,” John said, like he already knew what Arthur was suggesting. The kid knew him too well.

“We ain’t both--” 

“Arthur, shut  _ up.”  _ John took the risk to whirl around and face him, eyes blazing. “I ain’t leaving you. So stay right where you are or we both go out guns blazing.” 

And Arthur was reminded all at once, with an aching in his heart, that John was an idiot. 

If he’d been with anyone else, anyone with a bit of sense, he might have been able to convince them to keep going, to leave Arthur behind and give themselves a chance at the life they deserved. 

But John was a stubborn moron. Always had been. He was Dutch without the speeches, without the silver tongue or charming eyes. His dangerous determination was always present, always a liability to his own life. 

And just like Dutch, there was nothing Arthur could do to change his mind. He had his heart set on a certain outcome, and he’d die before he left his family behind. 

If they didn’t die here, Arthur was going to kill John himself. 

It was a wonder why Abigail stayed in love with him, and while Arthur found himself irrationally worried Jack would grow up to be a man like him, he couldn’t help but wonder if he should be worried the boy might end up just like John. If he even made it to adulthood. 

The thought of the small family made Arthur’s heart swell, because he could be the reason that boy grew up without a father. 

They didn’t deserve that. Jack deserved to be safe and loved. Abigail deserved to have the man John pretended he couldn’t be, not a memory and a body in the ground. 

If the universe decided to be kind and they made it through this, Arthur was going to make sure John came back to them. He wouldn’t be around to see it, but he wouldn't leave the world without piecing that broken family together. 

But surviving wasn’t up to him anymore. Not when he was only semi-conscious, barely able to see, let alone aim through the trees. 

“Keep breathing, Marston,” Arthur said, voice gentle. “Focus on what you’re doing.” 

He remembered how tense and panicked John had been the first time he’d learned to shoot a gun properly, all those years ago. He’d been a small, feral child, quick to anger, tense and frustrated at himself, seconds away from throwing the gun down and quitting. 

When Dutch had been at a loss, Arthur had said those same words to him, putting himself in Hosea’s shoes, trying to be the gentle and calming presence the older man had been for him. 

In front of him, John nodded, pushing the horse impossibly faster. The trees moved around them in a dark blur, blocking out the sunlight. Arthur had to resist the urge to squeeze his eyes shut, terrified the stolen horse would be too much to control, or the ground would suddenly give way beneath them. 

But the shouting and curses eventually began to fade, the lawmen’s horses growing quieter as John took them through the rest of the forest, never slowing. 

Arthur tried to say something, wincing when the familiar knife in his throat returned with a vengeance, his lungs squeezing.

He couldn’t fight against it anymore, holding John so tight he probably broke a rib. Arthur leaned over the horse’s side as the coughing overtook him, spots dancing in front of his vision, making him dizzy and lightheaded. 

“Arthur?” 

He’d barely even noticed they’d stopped, barely noticed when John had to practically pry his arms away from his waist, a hand still on Arthur’s back as he dropped from the saddle. 

“Come on, I’ve got you.” 

Arthur couldn’t even bring himself to be annoyed with the soft tone. Not when this could easily be his last few living moments. 

He was guided from the saddle, still coughing up his lungs and spraying blood across the forest floor, laid down on his side with steady hands rubbing his back. 

But by some impossible miracle, just when he felt himself fading, there was a break in between the awful hacking, allowing him to finally take a ragged breath. 

“There you go,” John soothed, still moving his hand in circles along Arthur's spine. “Just breathe. You ain’t done fighting yet.” 

Not quite yet. He wasn’t going to let himself die until he gave John a piece of his goddamn mind. But he could focus on that later. Right now, they had bigger problems. 

“They’ll be looking for us.” 

John nodded. “Maybe.” 

_ “Maybe?”  _ he echoed. “You boys killed two people--” 

“Injured a third,” John corrected. “Not to mention trespassing. But I don’t think they got a good look at us.” 

Arthur took another shaky breath, arm wrapped protectively around his chest. “Doctors got a pretty good look at me.”

John had no response to that, and the two of them sat in uneasy silence while Arthur worked on catching his breath, labored and wheezing as it was. 

When the younger man finally spoke again, all bravado had vanished. “Do you think Dutch and Hosea--” 

“They know what they’re doing,” Arthur assured. “And they know how to find us. We just have to wait.” 

But he was struggling to hide his own fear in front of John. He didn’t doubt the two men would be able to evade the law unscathed, it was only a question of finding them before Arthur ran out of time. 

“Here,” John said, hands suddenly moving to Arthur’s shoulders, helping him sit up. “Lean back. Get some rest before we have to move again.” 

Arthur didn’t have the strength to argue, despite the nagging fear in the back of his mind that if he closed his eyes, he’d never open them again. 

“It’s ok,” John said, once again seeming to hear what was left unspoken. “I’ll be right here if you need me.” 

Arthur wasn’t even able to try and respond, mind spiraling downwards, the black spots taking over, dunking him back into darkness. 

  
  


When Arthur woke, it was to the feeling of eyes on him, watching, silent and unnerving. He sighed, brief confusion fading quickly, knowing exactly who it is. 

“I ain’t dead yet.” 

There was a beat of silence, John shuffling against the forest floor. “I know.” 

“Then stop  _ staring  _ at me like I am,” Arthur snapped, eyes fluttering open. Or I ain’t gonna be able to  _ sleep.” _

“You slept through the day just fine.” 

Arthur glanced up at the canopy of leaves above him, the sunlight that had once filtered through replaced by the silver glow of the moon, the forest plagued with heavy shadows. 

“We should move.”

“No.” John sat up a little straighter, defiant. “Staying still is the only way Dutch and Hosea will be able to find us.” 

“Or the law,” Arthur muttered, though he had no intention of moving. He wasn’t sure he could even if he wanted to. “What happened?” 

John peered up at him, curious, before finally seeming to realize what he was asking. “Braithwaites figured out what we were doing.” 

Arthur nodded. “Everyone else ok?” 

“You were the only one they got to,” John explained. “Not sure what their plan was. None of them lived long enough to tell us.” 

Arthur couldn’t help but smile, able to imagine Dutch’s righteous anger all too well. The man didn’t take a bruise to his ego lightly. 

And then John was speaking again, a different, deeper anger tainting his voice. “They tried...they tried to take Jack, too.” 

“Jesus.” 

“If I hadn't been there…” he paused, and Arthur didn’t miss the way his voice broke. “Arthur, they could’ve...he’s  _ four  _ and I haven’t...Abigail’s  _ furious.”  _

Arthur felt his own anger rising, but for a different reason as John’s story fully pieced itself together. 

“So, what the hell are you doing  _ here?”  _ he demanded, meeting John’s confused gaze. “Your son was almost kidnapped, and you leave him to come after  _ me?”  _

“Of course I did! We’re family.” 

“And Jack isn’t?” Arthur snapped. “You said it yourself, the boy is  _ four.  _ He’s terrified out of his mind and you  _ left  _ him.” 

“To save your life!” 

“You didn’t have to come!” It came out harsher than he’d intended. He was grateful beyond words that John was here, a lifeline to hold on to. A symbol of what Arthur would leave behind. “You should be with your family.” 

John scoffed, tearing his eyes away to lean against the tree beside him. “I ain’t never been much of a father to the boy.” 

“No,” Arthur agreed. “But you could be. The boy deserves a father, and you’re all he’s got. You need to make an effort. Abigail shouldn’t have to do it by herself.” 

“He’s got you,” John said. “And he’s got Hosea. You two were always better at this than I was.” 

“But  _ you’re  _ his father. He looks up to  _ you,  _ Marston. And you could be a damn good father if you tried.” 

John shook his head, though he seemed less resistant this time. “Abigail deserves better than...than me. They both do.” 

“You’re right,” Arthur said. “But like I said, you’re all they got. And you deserve to have a family. I want you to have a normal life.” 

There was a beat of silence before John turned to look at him, like it had taken a moment to process what Arthur was saying. 

“You’re talking...you’re talking leaving the gang? Leaving  _ Dutch?”  _

Arthur wasn’t sure if that was anger or disbelief in his voice, so he spoke carefully, letting his thoughts flow freely for the first time. 

“I don’t know how this is going to end,” he explained. “But it’ll end. One way or another. Dutch will do his best, I know he will. And Hosea will be at his side, but...but I ain't gonna be here to see this thing through.” 

“Don’t say that.”

“We both know I won’t be around much longer.” As if on cue, Arthur buried his face in his sleeve and coughed, wincing when it made his shirt sticky with blood. “I don’t know what’ll happen when I’m gone. But I don’t want that boy to lose his father. And I don’t want you to die for this.” 

He couldn’t let John die. More than anything, he didn’t want anyone else he loved to die. If nothing else, he had to make sure John and his family were safe. 

John was silent a moment, and Arthur could only desperately hope he was considering. They’d both been having their doubts recently. Everyone had, but John had been one of the few to voice his misgivings aloud. 

If he was smart enough to see that Dutch’s promises for a new beginning weren’t as simple as he made them seem, then maybe…

“I already left once,” John said. “I left them for a year. I left Abigail alone with a  _ baby,  _ and then I didn’t…” 

Arthur nodded. They barely spoke about that year John had been gone, Hosea the only one John had ever really opened up to, but Arthur thought he understood. He’d been scared, suffocated, overwhelmed. 

And he’d been there, too.  

“I had a family.” Arthur said the words without even meaning too, biting his lip at John’s look of shock. But there was no taking it back, and he continued. “I was younger than you. I had a little boy. Issac.” 

John was still looking at him like he was watching a stranger, eyes distant and calculating, almost as if he didn’t believe him. “What happened?” 

The question hung in the air, John already seeming to know the answer, needing to hear it anyway. Arthur’s nails dug into his palm, burying so deep he thought he might draw blood. 

“He and his mother died.” He’d forgotten how long it had been since he’d allowed himself to talk about this. He’d never been sober. “Because I wasn’t there.” 

Another beat of silence, awkward and tense, and John’s words were forced when he finally spoke. “I’m sorry.” 

“It was a long time ago. But I don’t want the same thing to happen to you. You need to be with your family. You need to get out.” 

“And where am I supposed to go?” John demanded. “The gold turned out to be a myth, and we barely have enough money as it is. There’s nowhere to go. That’s why people stay. It’s safer with Dutch.” 

Arthur suddenly wondered, for the first time, that if he was healthy and had the money, if he would ever leave the safety of Dutch’s side. If he knew for certain things would spiral downward, that things would only end in death and destruction, would he leave behind the only family he’d ever known?

He’d chosen to stay with Dutch and Hosea when Issac was born, visiting Eliza occasionally when he had the chance. But if he’d had the money, a clear vision for how bad things could get, would he have done what he was begging John to do? 

He wouldn’t. The realization was sudden, heavy. He wouldn’t leave Dutch and Hosea, not after everything they’d done for him. Not even if staying meant certain death. Leaving had never even crossed his mind. He wasn't strong enough to walk away. 

But John wasn’t him. John had always been better. He’d always had a chance at a future, at a family. He still had a life ahead of him. 

“Dutch set aside some money for me,” he said. “Said it was there in case I wanted to die somewhere quiet. I don’t know exactly how much there is, but it should be enough to get you started someplace safe.” 

In the moonlight, he saw John blink, dumbfounded. “But...but it’s yours--” 

“I ain’t gonna be around to spend it,” Arthur said, not that the money would have gone to much use if he was. “And if it’s my money, I can do what I want with it. And I want to give it to you.” 

John was still staring at him, mouth hanging open, speechless. He blinked again, looked down at his hands before looking back up to Arthur. “I don’t--” 

“Just think about it. Please. But make up your mind before I die, will you?” 

John nodded, pulling his knees up to his chest and falling silent. Arthur knew there was nothing more he could say to convince him. Once again, it was all on him. 

It might have been another hour, might have only been a few moments, but Arthur’s head snapped up when he heard the distinct noise of a horse drawing nearer, John scrambling to his feet and reaching for his gun. 

He met Arthur’s eyes, finger on the trigger as he inched forward, peering through the darkness. They both waited with bated breath, waited for the shooting to start, waited for their luck to come to an end.

“John?” 

And even with his ears ringing and his heart pounding in his ears, Arthur would recognize that voice anywhere. The control, the barely concealed worry. 

“Dutch,” John breathed, lowering his gun. “Thank god. Hosea with you?” 

“I’m here, John.” 

The sound of the older man’s voice, the confirmation that his family was here, alive and still at his side, made the stress of his talk with John melt away, Arthur leaning his head back against the tree. 

“How’s he doing?” Dutch asked as he dismounted, the horses unfamiliar and clearly stolen, speaking like Arthur was incapable of answering himself. 

But at the moment, he found he was. The pressure on his chest was too tight, the plaguing exhaustion too heavy. 

Dutch was already moving towards him, Hosea pausing to put a steady hand on John’s shoulder before following. 

“How’re you feeling, son?” 

Arthur managed a shrug, turning away to clear his throat. “Fine. Didn’t get shot thanks to John.” 

Dutch smiled, glancing over his shoulder to the younger man, before turning to Hosea crouched at his side. There was something unreadable dancing in the older man’s eyes, something Arthur wasn’t sure he’d ever seen before. 

He wondered if he should remind that he was dying. He knew they knew, of course they did, he just wasn’t sure if they had come to terms with it yet. He wondered if they were pretending for his sake.  

The kidnapping and the days in the sanatorium had stolen what little time he’d had left. But they were together, and in the end that was all that mattered. 

But John...John shouldn’t be here. 

He should be rebuilding the family he’d almost broken. He should be making up for lost time. The sooner he started, the sooner he could work towards forgiveness, to being a real father. 

And really, Arthur didn’t want him here. He’d needed his presence, just as much as he’d needed Dutch and Hosea’s. They were brothers, always had been. But he didn’t want John to see this. 

“I was thinking,” he started, surprising himself with the strength his voice still possessed. “About...about what we promised Abigail. A better life for her and Jack.” 

Over Dutch’s shoulder, he saw John shift uncomfortably. “Arthur--” 

“And John deserves to have a life,” he continued, ignoring him. “A real life. He’s the only one of us who has a chance.” 

For a second, it looked as though Dutch was about to argue. And then his face fell, reaching out to squeeze Arthur’s arm. “We need...the way things are going, we need as many men as we can get, son.” 

“He’s right,” Hosea said. “And when you get better, you’ll be--” 

“When I get  _ better?”  _ The serenity and acceptance he’d started feeling towards death came crashing down around him as he looked to Hosea, incredulous. 

Dutch was supposed to be the one with the false hope, with the impossible outcomes. Hosea was the one who was supposed to accept it, to help him cope. “Look at me, Hosea. I ain’t  _ getting  _ better.” 

“Don’t say that.” 

“It’s  _ ok,”  _ he insisted. “But if I’m gonna die--” 

“You ain’t dying.” 

“If I’m gonna die,” he said again, looking to John and back to Dutch. “I want to die knowing I left one good thing behind.” 

He wanted Jack to have a father, Abigail to have a husband. He wanted John to be safe, to survive, to leave this life behind. 

He’d been furious when John had left for that year, that cold, lonely year, and now here he was, doing everything he could to send him away for good. 

If he hadn’t been dying, if he would survive to feel John’s absence, he wasn’t sure he’d still be trying. 

Dutch and Hosea seemed to understand, something in their eyes softening when they glanced at each other. John shuffled his feet and cleared his throat, all eyes suddenly on him. 

“I’ve been a shit father,” he said, and Arthur couldn’t help his smile. “But...Arthur and I were talking...Abigail and Jack deserve better. I can do better. I can make them a life.” 

Dutch hesitated, turning around to face him fully, running a hand over his face. “Is that what you want?” 

John was silent, shrinking under Dutch’s gaze. He looked to Arthur, meeting his waiting eyes, before looking back. 

“You know I love this gang,” he said. “And you two...you two raised me. Saved my life. I owe you both. I always will.” He paused, taking a breath. “But I have a son. I don’t want him to grow up without a father. And Abigail shouldn’t be raising a boy by herself.” 

For a moment, Dutch didn’t respond, shoulders tense as he stared, and Arthur felt himself holding his breath, suddenly wondering if Dutch would even try to understand. 

But then he rocked back on his heels, looked to Hosea for some kind of silent confirmation, and nodded slowly. 

“Ok,” he said, relenting much easier than Arthur had thought he would. “It’s your life, John. And if you’re sure...when we get back to camp, we can talk more about it. Alright?” 

John swallowed, the tension leaving all at once. “Thank you.” 

“We need to figure out what we’re doing first,” Hosea said, pushing himself from the ground. “There’ll be patrols all around the city tonight. It’s safest to go around the swamps until we reach the main bridge.” 

“That could take days,” John pointed out. “We’re already...running out of time.” 

“It’s better than the law finding us again,” Dutch said. “And the ride shouldn’t be too bad.” 

It took Arthur a moment to notice they were staring at him, waiting for his approval, and his stomach twisted when he realized why. This could easily be his last ride. 

“Sounds good to me,” he said, wincing when his words were broken off by an icy cough. “Probably best to move now.” 

He wondered if they would bring his body back to camp if he didn’t make it all the way, or if they’d simply bury him where he died. He couldn’t decide which he would prefer. 

“Alright,” Hosea agreed, and Dutch moved to put Arthur’s arm around his shoulders. “Arthur, you ride with me.”

He didn’t even bother arguing, knowing there would be no way for him to ride on his own. Not with the way he was still trembling, each wheezing breath a knife to his chest. 

But he could still walk on his own, still hoist himself up on the stolen horse after Hosea, legs hanging over the side, a hand clutching the older man’s arm. 

“Hang in there,” Hosea said, quiet, as Dutch and John mounted. “You ain’t leaving us just yet.” 

  
  


Arthur hadn’t realized just how long he’d slept under the trees with John keeping watch, night fading quicker than he’d expected, bringing a crisp, windy day that made Arthur’s throat ache. 

They rode through the day, someone always keeping a constant eye on Arthur, someone always grimacing at his loud, uneven breaths, someone always asking him questions to make sure he was still alive. 

Arthur kept nodding along, muttering replies, pretending he wasn’t slowly losing the power to stay focused. He found himself slouching further and further, gradually losing what was left of his strength. 

He didn’t know how he was still breathing, or how long it would last, but by the time Dutch gave the order to set up camp, Arthur had made up his mind. 

It was early evening, the sun descending behind the sparkling blue water as they pitched the tents and laid out the bedrolls, and Arthur kept trying, with little success, to meet somebody’s eye. 

They refused to look at him, to acknowledge his weakness. If they did, he knew it would be too real to ignore. 

John volunteered to keep watch, as Arthur had known he would, and after a brief argument Hosea finally gave in, he and Dutch retreating to the flimsy tents. 

Arthur didn’t miss the sidelong glances they both gave him when they thought he wasn’t looking. 

He didn’t sleep. He couldn’t even if he was trying. Instead he listened, working to stay alert, to focus on the sounds of the surrounding forest, to the gentle wind, feeling the grass in between his fingers, breathing in the quiet air as best he could. 

He waited for what might have been hours, until Dutch and Hosea were finally still and silent, their breathing turned deep and even, before slowly sitting up. 

John was a couple paces away, seated atop a small rock with his gun in his lap, watching the moon’s reflection in the swaying water. 

“John?” 

The younger man was immediately alert, straightening as he grabbed his weapon, eyes flying in Arthur’s direction. “What’s wrong?”

Arthur shook his head, fighting back a cough as he moved to sit up, hating how hard the simple motion had suddenly become. 

But he managed to make it to his feet, fighting to keep his balance, slowly making his way to where the three awaiting horses were hitched. 

“Arthur?” John asked, keeping his voice a whisper. “What’re you--?” 

“Ride with me,” he said, taking the reins of the closest animal. 

“But Dutch and Hosea--” 

“We ain’t going far,” Arthur promised, taking in a breath and pulling himself onto the saddle. It made the world go dark for a second, his head spinning dangerously. “I need to talk to you.” 

And John seemed to understand the urgency, or maybe he was just humoring a dying man’s wishes. He followed Arthur, untying one of the animals as quietly as he could, mounting and riding carefully into the trees. 

Like he had promised, they didn’t go far, Arthur stopping once they were out of sight and earshot from the small, temporary camp and the men inside. 

He slid from his horse, knowing John would do the same. He needed to be on the ground, as hard as it was to stay upright, to get John to look him in the eye and understand what he was asking. 

“You need to go.” 

John blinked, furrowing his brow. “Go where?” 

_ “Home,  _ John. Back to camp. Back to your family. Tell them things are changing, that  _ you’re  _ changing. Tell them to pack their things.” 

“We’re going back together _,”_ John argued. “All of us.” 

“You’ll make it back,” Arthur said. “And so will Dutch and Hosea. But I don’t think I--” 

There was a hand in his shirt, grabbing him by the collar, the fury in John’s eyes silencing him, catching him off guard. “Arthur, shut  _ up.”  _

“John--” 

“I ain’t leaving you,” he said. “I won’t. We ride home together. Just like we always have. Why would I leave you?  _ Why?”  _

John was seething, hands shaking where they clutched the fabric of Arthur’s shirt. He only shook his head, trying to figure out how to explain. 

“I don’t want you to be here when I...I don’t want you to see it.” 

John's eyes widened, his hold on Arthur’s shirt loosening as he shoved him back. “You son of a  _ bitch!  _ You’re a selfish bastard, you know that?”

Arthur shrugged. “I’m dying, John.” 

“You--” he cut himself off, seeming to realize how pointless the argument would be, now rubbing furiously at his eyes. “Fuck you.” 

“And if Dutch changes his mind,” Arthur continued, hating himself for the words he couldn’t control. “I want you to be able to get to the money first.” 

John’s anger turned to shock. “You’re not  _ serious?”  _

“I’m sorry,” he said, meaning it. “It’s...it’s just in case.” 

He was confident he’d be able to talk Dutch into letting John and his family go, but the other man had been unpredictable lately, Hosea proving to be the same. The stress had been getting to all of them. 

“You need to be with your family,” Arthur said. “You left them to get to me, but now you need to decide who you’re staying with. Because you can’t have both. You need to learn how to walk away for good.” 

It felt like a betrayal. To himself, to John, to Dutch and Hosea, to everything they’d built together. 

But everything came to an end eventually. He’d had to learn that the hard way. 

John was pacing, a hand pressed over his mouth, eyes wet and wandering. He was shaking his head, running fingers through his hair, tilting his head back and gazing at the sky hidden by the canopy of trees. 

When he finally turned back, Arthur knew he’d made up his mind before he even said anything.

“Get out of here,” Arthur said softly. “Go on. I’ll tell Dutch and Hosea. Whether or not you’re still at camp when they get back is up to you. But you need to go.” 

John nodded, lingering a moment, before throwing himself forward, wrapping his arms around the older man. Arthur didn’t resist, returning the embrace, the two of them holding each other tight enough to crack ribs. 

John’s face was buried in his shoulder, and Arthur felt his breath hitch, broken by a mourning sob as he held tighter, grieving.  

“I love you.” 

“I love you too.” 

Arthur squeezed his eyes shut, willing himself to pretend that this wasn’t a goodbye, that he’d live and reunite with John back at camp in a few days. Everything would be ok. 

John would start his life with his family, and Arthur would visit him as often as he could. He’d see Dutch’s plans to the end, and no matter how things turned out, they’d all be together. 

But it was becoming almost impossible to breathe, to stand, and as much as he hated himself for it, he pulled away from John. 

“You’ll be ok,” he promised, flinching at how quickly his voice had weakened. “Just don’t look back.” 

John nodded, hardly looking convinced. He mounted his horse again, frozen in the saddle, eyes still glued to Arthur. 

“Thank you.” He squeezed the reins, face still stained with tears, knuckles white. “You’re my brother.” 

“I know, John,” Arthur said, forcing a watery smile. “Get out of here.” 

And just like he’d been told, John pulled the reins back and turned the horse around, disappearing into the trees without another word, never looking back. 

It proved to be just in time.

As soon as Arthur turned to his own horse to make his way back to Dutch and Hosea, it felt as though a rock had slammed into his chest. 

All of the air rushed out of his already depleted body, sending him crashing to his knees as a new wave of coughs overtook him, blood dripping from his chin and staining his shirt. 

The coughs were somehow worse than they’d ever been, sending white-hot pain shooting through his chest, everything spiraling downwards in a horrible void of darkness. 

He was going numb, his arms no longer able to support him, and he felt himself crash to the floor, landing on his stomach. 

His lungs felt like they were spasming, begging for air he couldn’t get, every bone and muscle in his body screaming for help. 

He couldn’t catch his breath. He was supposed to be able to breathe by now. 

He’d thought he’d have more time. Another few hours at least. He’d planned on making it back to Dutch and Hosea, at his family’s side where he belonged.

He didn’t want to die like this. He didn’t want to be alone. 

But now the ground below him was sinking, dragging him with it, the horrible coughs the only noise echoing in his ears. 

He thought he saw the horse he’d taken bolt, fleeing from the commotion, from the aroma of death, leaving him truly abandoned. 

He was going to die alone. Just a few feet from his family, but too far for them to hear him, to help him, to be with him while it ended. 

Arthur opened his mouth in one last desperate gasp, but his blackened, withered lungs still refused to work, finding no air, no release from the pain. 

He couldn’t keep his eyes open anymore, no matter how hard he tried, finally sinking under one last wave of crushing pain. 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :)


	11. Chapter 11

“Arthur!” 

He wasn’t moving. John was nowhere in sight, two of the horses were gone, and Arthur was deathly still on the forest floor. 

Hosea didn’t stop running, tearing across the grass, but Dutch was faster, dropping to his knees beside Arthur with wide, watery eyes. 

“No,” he muttered, hands shaking as he reached for Arthur’s shoulders. He was on his stomach, blood-stained face pressed against the ground. “No, no, no.” 

Hosea skidded to a stop beside him, completely frozen up, useless, everything screeching to a halt around him. Dutch was pulling Arthur off the ground, cradling him against his chest, leaning in close. 

“He’s still breathing,” Dutch said, and just like that Hosea’s world started moving again. “Barely. What do we  _ do?” _

Dutch was frantic. In his own heart-stopping terror at finding the camp empty, the forest silent, Hosea almost hadn’t noticed how truly scared Dutch was, how young and helpless he looked, slowly losing the control he had been so determined to keep. 

But for once, Hosea didn’t know how to help. Arthur couldn’t die, he  _ wouldn’t,  _ Hosea just wasn’t sure what he was supposed to do to stop it. 

“I don’t know.” But there had to be something. There was  _ always  _ something. “I--I don’t...Dutch, I don’t…” 

Dutch wasn’t looking at him, staring down at Arthur’s too-still frame rested in his lap, holding him tight against his chest. 

“We need to get him to a doctor,” Hosea said suddenly. “Hurry. Get him to the horse.” 

They only had one horse left, the others having disappeared along with John, but they could worry about that later. After Arthur was breathing properly again. 

“What’s the doctor going to do?” Dutch asked, but he was already wrapping an arm beneath Arthur’s legs. He wasn’t giving up, he was just desperate for any sort of hope to cling to. 

“More than we can. You get him on that horse, and I’ll--” 

He trailed off, silenced by the sound of rustling leaves, of thundering hooves growing closer and closer. He spun around, hoping to see John, almost expecting lawmen. 

Dutch barked a shaky laugh as a white shape pushed its way through the leaves, fidgety and anxious, and Hosea couldn’t help his own relieved smile when The Count skidded to a stop. 

“Told you he’d find his way back,” Dutch said, pulling Arthur off the ground as he stood. “Hang in there, son. It ain’t your time yet.” 

After an incessant series of calls and whistles, the stolen horse finally came charging through the trees, Hosea managing to grab its reins and pull it to a stop while Dutch moved Arthur to The Count’s saddle, mounting behind him. 

“He’s still breathing?” Arthur was so quiet, the gentle rise and fall of his chest had been the only proof he was even still alive. But from the saddle, Hosea wouldn’t be able to see if they stopped. 

Dutch nodded, wrapping one arm around Arthur’s waist, the other clutching the reins. “He’s still holding on.” 

He said nothing else, spurring his horse forward, The Count shooting through the trees in a blur, Hosea pushing his own horse to follow. 

The stolen mount wasn’t nearly as fast as Dutch’s Arabian, but it managed to keep up, only lagging a few paces behind. The Count had always seemed to be able to sense Dutch’s distress, matching the man’s determination, the horse having saved their lives more than once. 

Hosea’s chest ached at the reminder of how many times Arthur, unconscious or bleeding, had been thrown on Dutch’s saddle, cradled against his chest or leaned on his back, barely holding on, always doing the impossible and surviving another day. 

Because he was asked to. Because his family needed him. And today wouldn’t be any different. He would hold on. 

“Dutch?” 

It was barely audible, almost lost to the wind, but Hosea’s heart sped up when he heard the small voice, Dutch going rigid in front of him, and he forced his horse to move faster. 

“Right here,” Dutch said, glancing over his shoulder as Hosea rode up beside him. “You’re ok, Arthur. Just keep breathing.” 

Hosea could hear his breath again, those awful, uneven wheezes that made him flinch, only able to imagine how painful they were.  

But they sounded worse now, more like labored, desperate gasps. All the color had drained from Arthur’s face, his bloodshot eyes barely open, lips and teeth speckled a deep red. 

“Where--” he broke off with another cough, wet and overpowering, and Hosea held his breath until it passed. “Wh-where’re we going?” 

“Back to the city,” Dutch explained. “Whether they let us in or not. We’re getting you to a doctor.” 

Arthur took another breath, squeezing his eyes shut with a groan, pressing himself further into the man’s chest. “Ain’t...ain’t nothing a doctor can do.” 

“There is,” Hosea said. His voice, weak and trembling, sounded foreign to his own ears. “He’ll give you some medicine, and then we’ll get you back to camp.” 

Arthur shook his head, pulling away from Dutch to cough again. “We need to stop.” 

“We can’t,” Hosea argued, kicking his horse’s side, pushing faster. “We’re almost there, we’ll--” 

_ “Please.”  _ Arthur was growing quieter, voice nearly drowned out completely by his coughs. “Stop...just...I don’t--I don’t want to--” 

The Count was yanked to a stop so suddenly Hosea almost crashed right into the animal, veering to the side just in time and circling back around. 

Dutch had let go of the reins, both arms now wrapped around Arthur. There were tears in his eyes, streaming down his face as he closed them, shoulders shaking as he cried silently. 

“What the hell are you doing?” Hosea demanded. “We need to  _ move.  _ We don’t have time, he’s--” 

“It’s  _ ok.”  _ Arthur had raised his head to watch the older man, their gazes finally locking. It only lasted a second, Arthur suddenly pulling away from Dutch’s hold and swinging his legs over the saddle before anyone could stop him. 

His legs gave out beneath him as soon as he hit the ground, Arthur crashing to his waves, curling in on himself as his body convulsed under the new wave of gasps and coughs. 

Dutch and Hosea were at his side in an instant, dropping to their knees, rubbing his back and holding his head as they waited, praying for it to pass. 

“We’re right here, Arthur,” Dutch promised, voice broken by his own sorrow. “Focus on us. It’s ok, you’ll be ok.” 

Hosea couldn’t bring himself to speak, feeling as though he’d start sobbing the moment he opened his mouth. But he held the back of Arthur’s neck, doing all he could to steady the younger man, remind him he wasn’t alone, that they would still get through this. 

And just like all the others, the attack eventually passed, allowing Arthur to breathe once more. But it seemed to leave him more exhausted than usual, the worsening pain rendering him shaky and spent. 

“Arthur--” 

He was already pulling away from their hold, his breathing now nothing but desperate, rattling gasps. Arthur dug his hands into the dirt, dragging himself forward, struggling to make it to his knees. 

“Arthur,” Dutch said again, terror disguised by gentility. If it weren’t for the tears and the way his breath hitched, Hosea might have allowed himself to be fooled by the facade. “What are you doing?” 

Arthur took another breath, stubbornly trying to push himself off the ground, Hosea’s hands hovering. The younger man was fighting to speak, to keep moving. 

“Don’t--don’t wanna die...in a doctor’s office. I want to...help me to...” 

Dutch had a hand pressed over his mouth, watching Arthur like he’d just found a bullet wound, but he nodded, and Hosea did the same. 

“What do you need, son?” Hosea asked for Dutch who, just like the day Arthur had been diagnosed, had found himself speechless. 

“Help me--” Arthur coughed again, weakening, but didn’t stop fighting. “Help me stand.” 

They had stopped close to the treeline, the sparkling water just visible through the trunks and low hanging branches, Arthur’s eyes glued to the hidden, dark sky. 

Hosea nodded again, understanding, putting aside his own panic to carry out Arthur’s desperate impulse. As long as he stayed awake and strong enough to speak, they could afford to let him rest until daylight. 

Just like he had in the sanatorium, Hosea draped one of Arthur’s arms over his shoulder, pressing himself up against one of his sides. Dutch did the same, the three of them gradually making it to their feet. 

Arthur was breathing heavily, but he seemed determined to do as much as he could on wobbling legs. They didn’t have to go far until they were out in the open, but the journey felt like an eternity. 

Now that he was closer, Hosea could clearly hear each breath Arthur took, and how quickly they had worsened. Each intake sounded like a battle, bloody and horrible, the air barely making it through corrupted lungs. 

They made it to the grass overlooking the shimmering water, the ocean a gentle gray in the dying night. The air was cooling, the moon sinking below them, out of sight. The dawn wasn’t far off, the sun soon beginning its ascend over the water. 

As soon as they began to slow, Arthur’s strength seemed to fade all at once. 

His knees buckled, and Hosea just barely managed to steady him, guiding them both gently to the ground, Dutch doing all he could to slow their descent. 

Arthur ended up on his back with his head in Hosea’s lap, Dutch seated at his side, squeezing his hand. His head was turned slightly, watching, waiting for the rising sun. 

“You good?” Hosea asked, relaxing slightly when Arthur’s breathing seemed to grow a little less labored, air coming a bit easier. 

Arthur gave a small nod, tightening his grip on Dutch’s hand. “Just don’t...don’t go.” 

“Of course,” Dutch said, forced smile quivering. “We’re at your side for as long as you need. Just like I told you.” 

They fell into silence, the crashing of the ocean’s gentle waves lulling the clearing into an almost peaceful serenity, letting Hosea’s mind wander, focusing on something other than the ragged breaths of the boy he’d raised. 

His hand moved to Arthur’s head, running his fingers through hair soaked with sweat, smiling when Arthur gradually began to relax. 

“Arthur,” he said after a moment, cautious. “Before you...was John with you? Did you see him?” 

It took a moment, but Arthur nodded, taking in a breath to find his voice. “Sent him home.” 

“Why?” 

Arthur shrugged, shoulders brushing Hosea’s knees. “It’s...where he needs to be.” 

Hosea met Dutch’s eyes, but neither pried. As long as John was safe. He only wished he knew how long Arthur had been out there alone. 

His voice was still weak, shaky and hoarse, but hopefully the rest would do him some good. There was a chance he could make it back to camp without risking a ride into the city for medicine. 

“Dutch?” 

Dutch leaned in closer at the sound of his name, squeezing Arthur’s hand a little tighter. “What is it, Arthur?” 

“John--” he turned away to cough again, thankfully only once. “You gotta let him go, Dutch. If it’s--it’s what he wants, you gotta--” 

“I will,” Dutch said. “I will, Arthur, I swear to you. I’ll do everything I can to get him and his family out of this life. I’ll make sure they’re safe for you.” His breath caught in his throat, more tears flooding his eyes as Hosea watched. It had been years since he’d seen the man brought to tears. “Ok?” 

Arthur nodded again, voice growing dangerously quiet. “Thank you. You’re gonna...you’ll be ok.” 

He was talking to both of them now, sad and distant but resigned, and just like that Hosea’s heart stopped, realizing what this was, what he was implying, what Dutch’s tears really meant. 

“No.” This wasn’t supposed to happen. This wasn’t  _ going  _ to happen. “You can’t go, Arthur, you can’t give up. You have to keep fighting.” 

Dutch was staring at him, eyes betraying his heartbreak. “Hosea--” 

“Hosea,  _ please.”  _ Arthur couldn’t turn his head to look at him, but Hosea felt him go tense in his hold. “It’ll be ok.” 

“It will,” Hosea agreed, desperate, but the hopelessness was dawning. “We just need to get you home.” 

Arthur shifted, letting his head sink back into Hosea’s hands. “I’m already home.” 

They were together. That was all Arthur had ever really wanted, all he ever needed. It had been his one request these past weeks, terrified of dying alone. 

“You remember when we found him, Hosea?” Dutch asked lightly, like it was any other night. “Angry, wild, and scared out of his mind?” 

Despite himself, Hosea smiled. “Of course. Tried to rob you if I remember correctly.”

“He did,” Dutch said. “Did pretty well, too. I told you he had a gift.” 

Arthur spoke up, soft and weak, but loud enough to hear. “Maybe you just ain’t as good as you think you are.” 

Dutch laughed, tracing his thumb along Arthur's hand, using his free arm to wipe his eyes with his sleeve. “Maybe. But you were special. You always have been.” 

“You were always too good for us,” Hosea said, eyes drifting to the sea. “You were just a kid when we met, but you were family. You always have been and...and you always will be. Don’t you forget that, alright?” 

He waited for Arthur to have the strength to respond, to hear his voice, weak as it was, breathing in the quiet forest, watching the sky slowly grow to a light gray. 

But there was no response. The silence hung heavy, Arthur silent and motionless beneath him, the question left unanswered. 

“Arthur?” The panic seized him by the throat, his heart threatening to break through his chest. His head spun, leaving him dizzy as he stopped stroking blond hair.  _ “Arthur?”  _

“Still here, old man.” His voice was too quiet, nothing but a strained whisper, but it was the best thing Hosea had ever heard. “Sorry.” 

The older man let out a shaky breath, going back to stroking Arthur’s hair, trying to fight back a sob. Dutch wasn’t trying, or maybe he’d simply lost the fight long ago, giving in to his sorrow. 

“You’re ok,” he said, too small and too pained to be reassuring. “You can rest, son.” 

And Hosea, desperately, wanted to argue. He wanted to beg, wanted to scream, to do all he could to keep Arthur awake, to refuse to let him give up, to make him  _ stay.  _

But he was exhausted. He’d been tired long before he was sick, working himself to the bone since he was a boy, the stress often coming closer to killing him than the dangers of the changing world. 

He’d kept the gang alive, kept them happy, kept them strong. There was no man more loyal, more needed, sick or not. They couldn’t lose him, as unfair as it was. 

If it weren’t for Arthur, Hosea would have gone off on his own again long ago, leaving Dutch and his dreams behind, never building the family he held so close to his heart. 

On his own, he’d have been dead years ago. But he had found something to live for, to love. He had a man to follow, and a son to raise. 

Fathers weren’t supposed to outlive their sons.

“Thank you,” Arthur said again, almost too weak to understand. “For...for everything...for saving me. I owe you--I...I tried...I  _ tried  _ to--to--” 

He was interrupted by another fit of coughs, stealing what remained of his fading strength. Dutch squeezed his hand, lips pressed in a tight line as they waited for it to pass. 

When it finally did, the air falling silent once again, Arthur looked like he barely possessed the energy to take another breath, the inhale small and ragged. 

“We know,” Dutch said, looking to Hosea, the two of them speaking without words. “And you don’t owe us a thing, son. We love you. We always will.” 

There was a moment of silence, threatening to send Hosea into another spiral of panic. But then Arthur took a small breath, his words slurred, the two men leaning closer to hear. 

“Love...you too.” His eyes were still angled to the sky, a faint smile on his lips. “I gave...I gave you everything I had.”  

He needed them to know, to understand he’d done all he could. He needed to make sure he’d done enough before he could rest. He needed to know everyone was safe. 

And the words, spoken blindly in a semi-conscious state of fading pain, were like knives to Hosea’s breaking heart, shattering what was left of it, unraveling his carefully crafted control. 

“I know you did,” Dutch said, the reply Arthur needed most. “You did so well, Arthur. You did more than anyone else could have.” 

“We are so,  _ so  _ proud of you,” Hosea added, wishing he’d said it more, wishing things had been easier, better. “You’ve done enough, son. More than enough. You can...you can rest, now.” 

Golden light was streaking across the gray dawn, glistening across the dark water, a deep, orange light peeking through the fading night’s sky, chasing away the darkness. 

The first light of morning revealed just how starkly pale Arthur was, how heavy and red his eyes were, how weak and gaunt he looked. 

The light also revealed just how poorly Dutch was holding himself together, the rest of his composure shattering, and Hosea found himself quickly following suit, listening to quieting rasps. 

“I was just thinking,” he said, breaking the suffocating silence. “About the first time the three of us robbed a bank.” 

It startled a smile out of Dutch, who nodded. “Christ. That must have been...what, twenty years ago?” 

“Something like that.” 

Dutch looked down at Arthur, fondness briefly replacing sorrow. “You were so young, probably  _ too _ young. You were shaking the whole time. Barely even knew how to hold a gun properly.” 

Arthur said nothing, no longer having the strength. But he matched the smile, eyes still on the rising sun, still breathing as he watched and listened. 

“But you did so well,” Dutch continued. “And you were so damn  _ proud.  _ You finally started...being ok. Kept thanking us. Kept wanting to do more.” 

“It wasn’t even about the money back then,” Hosea said, brushing the hair from Arthur’s forehead. “We gave most of it to the poor, remember that?” 

Dutch nodded, slow, smile slipping into something darker, sadder. “Simpler times.” 

“They were,” Hosea agreed. “But we’ll be alright.” 

He wanted so desperately to believe his own promise, despite the hopelessness and doubts. But it was what they all needed to hear, especially Arthur. 

Dutch’s eyes suddenly went wide, his breaths picking up, gaze flying to where he held Arthur’s hand, Hosea’s heart dropping as he followed. 

His grip, tight and grounding just moments before, had gone lax, his hand limp in Dutch’s hold. The faint smile had disappeared from his face, eyes staring blankly at the rising light. 

Hosea found himself staring at Arthur’s chest, watching it rise and fall. Each breath rattled in his chest, breath shallow and almost panicked. 

It rose and fell, rising and falling again, doing all it could to take in the air so desperately vital. But just like his grip, his breathing was becoming almost relaxed. 

His chest rose and fell, slower this time, quieter. Arthur took another breath, his chest rising too quietly, falling silently. 

It never rose again. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi. I have no excuse for my actions. Thank you for reading!


	12. Chapter 12

“Arthur.” 

This wasn’t supposed to be happening. 

_ “Arthur.”  _

The world had been trying to kill Arthur since he was a boy. He’d been left with an abusive father, then stranded on the streets and left to discover the dark cruelty of humanity first-hand. 

Even after he’d found his family, his  _ real  _ family, there had been no mercy from fate’s torture, death constantly clawing at him, trying to drag him under, take him away. 

They all lived dangerously in the life they chose, but Arthur had narrowly escaped death too many times for one man. 

Whether he’d been beaten, stabbed, kidnapped, lost, arrested, or just in the wrong place at the wrong time, Arthur had always done the impossible. He’d always come back to them. He’d always pulled through.

But here he was, no wound in sight, lifeless, Dutch clinging to a hand that refused to cling back. 

“Arthur  _ please!”  _ Hosea was breaking apart right in front of him, holding Arthur’s head in his hands, screaming the boy’s name, body wracked with sobs. “Come back! Come  _ back,  _ Arthur, just come  _ back!”  _

Any acceptance shattered the moment Arthur had stopped breathing, the weight of a reality without him overwhelming, the world suddenly too cold, too empty.

Dutch, against the warnings in his head screaming at him not to, found himself looking to Arthur’s face, and his chest was suddenly too tight, his breaths coming too fast.  

Arthur looked like he’d been dead for days. A lifeless ghost, slack jaw hanging open, half open eyes staring at nothing. 

He’d always been inquisitive, ever since he was a boy, watching the world around him intensely, eager to take everything in so he could sketch it in his journal later. 

Giving Arthur his first pad of paper and pen had been like kicking down a door, breaking through a barricade the young boy had put around himself. 

Dutch had smiled at the way Arthur’s eyes lit up, the way they shined when he would sit and sketch the land around him, darting from the paper, back to the awaiting world.

And he’d never stopped drawing, never stopped taking in the world, seeing beauty where Dutch could only see corruption and cruelty. 

He never thought Arthur’s eyes could be so empty, the once shimmering blue now glassy and gray, never again able to see, to match his smile whenever Dutch squeezed his arm or offered praise. Praise he should have given more often. 

It could have saved Arthur’s life. If he’d just thanked him one more time, if he’d sat him down, just once, and made him truly understand how important he was, how he was more than Dutch could ever deserve, he might not have been so desperate to prove himself. He might not have taken the job that had gotten him sick in the first place. 

But Arthur’s view of his own worth had always been shaky, and Dutch knew it was his fault, whether Arthur would have admitted it or not. 

Dutch had never done enough, especially these past months when it felt like the whole world was against people like him, when he’d had the weight of the gang on his shoulders. 

But it had been Arthur carrying their family. He’d kept them alive, kept them fed, kept them feeling safe. Even when they weren’t. Even when he was scared and sick and hurting, he’d done more than Dutch could ever do. 

And Dutch would never be able to thank him, to tell him he knew, that he saw what Arthur had always done. 

Because now his eyes would close forever, the world silenced. He was gone. As hard as Dutch had fought against it, fought against tuberculosis and the cruel men determined to rip a son away from him, saving him had always been impossible. 

He’d never had a chance. 

Dutch wanted to throw up. He wanted to scramble away from the body, disappear behind the trees and scream. He wanted to fall apart, wanted to sob, wanted to curse the world that thought it had the right to take away something so important. 

But he couldn’t. Because that would mean letting go of Arthur’s hand, pulling away from the grip he fastened around his cold, pale hand. It would be like turning his back, accepting he was gone. 

Dutch couldn’t accept it, even now. Even after he promised Arthur he could go, after he’d promised himself to be strong. Even now that it was real, laid out right in front of him, reality like a bullet to the chest. 

“Arthur!” Hosea had his forehead pressed to Arthur’s hair, shaking with the force of his sobs, cries nearly drowning out his screams. “No, Arthur,  _ god no.”  _

Dutch had never seen Hosea come undone like this before. Even when Bessie had died, and he’d been stricken with irreversible grief, he’d been quiet and reserved, even when he was drunk, like he was letting his own mind consume him. 

But maybe he just hadn’t been there to see the full extent of his pain. Or maybe a second death had just hit harder, broken what was left. Maybe it was because it was Arthur, his death always seeming so impossible. 

So he let Hosea sob, let him scream and beg, demand that the universe  _ give him back,  _ that the act was undone, that Arthur opened his eyes again and  _ breathed.  _

Dutch let him, knowing damn well it wouldn’t help, but allowing himself to hope, as dangerous as it was, that if there was a god, or several gods, if anyone was listening at all, they’d listen to a man like Hosea. That they’d give them their son back. 

But Arthur remained still, empty, moved only by Hosea tightening his hold, his pleading growing quieter.  

Dutch sat back, gaze wandering to the sky, the last thing Arthur had seen before he left the world. He squeezed his hand, silently hoping,  _ praying,  _ that Arthur would squeeze back. 

He never did. 

  
  
  


“Hosea.” 

The dawn had passed, as had most of the morning, the sky a light blue above their heads, the air gentle and warm. There was no real way for Hosea to tell how long they’d been sitting, not with the way his head was pounding, the world around him spinning out of control. 

“Hosea, please.” 

Hosea couldn’t talk. Didn’t have the strength, didn’t have the desire. His throat was raw and sore, his face soaked and stinging, his whole body trembling. 

Everything hurt, sharp pains digging into his bones, but none of it mattered. All that mattered was the head he held in his hands, the eyes that refused to look up to him, the corpse of his son draped across the ground. 

“Breathe for me, Hosea.” Dutch was in front of him, blurred and out of focus, and Hosea had no intention to try and meet his eyes. If he blocked out the world, ignored it, maybe it would prove to be some horrible nightmare. “Please.” 

There was a hand over his own, and Hosea could feel the tremors in Dutch’s fingers, and it was enough to get through to him, to get him to realize his chest hurt so badly because he couldn't seem to remember how to take a breath. 

“Look at me,” Dutch commanded, still in control,  _ always  _ in control, even after this. But his voice was unsteady, weak and shaking. “Look and me and breathe. Breathe with me, come on.” 

Hosea blinked to clear his vision, gaze traveling to Dutch’s chest, watching it rise and fall, doing all he could to copy it, breathing around shudders and lingering sobs. 

And then he found his gaze moving downward, back to Arthur’s unmoving chest, struck with the sudden reminder that Arthur wasn’t doing the same, never would be, and the grief gripped him by the throat all over again. 

There was a hand on his face, gently taking his jaw, Dutch forcing him to stare straight ahead, to watch Dutch, still alive and breathing. 

“Don’t, Hosea,” he warned. “Not right now. Give yourself a moment.” 

It felt blasphemous, like a disgusting act of betrayal, simply pretending Arthur wasn’t there, wasn’t dead, giving himself a moment to breathe when that right had been taken away from the boy in his lap. 

But Dutch held firm, red, broken eyes meeting Hosea’s, the two of them sat in silence, waiting for everything to be ok, knowing full well it never would be. 

It could have been another hour, could have only been five minutes. But eventually, Dutch loosened his hold, apparently satisfied with Hosea’s breathing. His hand was still in Arthur’s still holding on, some part of him refusing to give up. 

“Dutch?” He heard himself asking, still having no real say in what he did, still feeling vaguely like he was floating. 

When he spoke, Hosea abruptly realized that any control, on either of their parts, was a lie. They were both shattered, and there was no piecing them back together. “What are we supposed to do?” 

He sounded so small, so lost and beaten down, aimless. The great Dutch Van der Linde, always loud and confident, leading his family to a new life, head held high no matter what was thrown his way, had been broken beyond repair. 

“We need to bury him.” 

“Not here,” Dutch said. “God, Hosea, not here.” 

Hosea nodded, understanding, breathing in the cold, miserable city air that had only quickened Arthur’s downfall. It had been inevitable since the beginning, but if they had just managed to keep him safe…

“Do you want...do you want me to take him?” Hosea asked, selfishly relieved when Dutch shook his head. 

Dutch was usually the one to take Arthur when he’d been unable to ride on his own, the almost maternal worry never diminishing over the years. It had never been a good sign when Dutch had rode back into camp with Arthur in his saddle, but he’d always been breathing. 

One last ride, Hosea supposed, to pretend that Arthur could pull off one more miracle. That he was only injured, and he could still come back to them. 

But there was no more pretending. Not when Hosea pressed one last kiss to Arthur’s hair, finally moving back and lowering the young man’s head to the grass.  

It was impossible to pretend when Dutch, tears still sliding from his jaw, took a breath and finally pulled his hand away from Arthur’s, and gathered the boy he’d raised as a son in his arms. 

Hosea couldn’t keep pretending, denying, not when Arthur looked like that. His skin was so pale it almost seemed transparent, his face too-still, blood staining the corners of his open mouth. 

Arthur was always moving. Even when he slept, he would twitch and stir, mumble as he dreamt, always alert and aware. 

Hosea had seen countless men die, walked away from too many bodies for one lifetime. Sometimes, men looked peaceful, their death quiet enough to resemble sleep rather than death. 

Hosea knew better this time. 

They put Arthur on the back of The Count, careful to keep him comfortable, like it still mattered. Because to them, somehow, it did. 

Hosea didn’t miss the way Dutch kept one hand grazing Arthur’s shoulder, like he could still fool himself into believing the boy was still there. From the constant, crestfallen look in his eyes, Hosea knew it wasn’t working. 

“Come on,” he said softly, mounting his own horse, suddenly unable to look at the body. “Let’s go home.” 

  
  
  
  


_ Blessed are those who hunger and thirst for righteousness _

Charles had been the one to carve the tombstone, working silently through the night, only looking up for approval from Dutch and Hosea for the words to put in the wood. 

It had taken a death for Hosea to realize just how close Charles and Arthur had become in the months they’d known each other. Very few people managed to get Arthur to open up, to talk honestly. 

If they had more time, he could only imagine the friendship the two of them could have had. Undying and unwavering loyalty until the end, just like him and Dutch. 

Arthur was buried outside Valentine, Hosea silently musing about how much he had loved the lush green landscape, half of the Heartlands sketched in his journal within weeks of arriving. 

They let him rest on the edge of a quiet mountain overlooking the country he had loved so much, facing him West just like he’d requested, weeks before learning he was ill. 

When Micah had died, most of the gang hadn’t bothered to visit his hastily put together grave. If he was being honest, Hosea couldn’t quite remember where it was, tucked away beneath some trees in the forest near the old camp. 

But people came to see Arthur. Shady Belle was left empty the day he was buried, the air heavy and silent as Arthur’s family said their goodbyes. 

There was no other man that could reach the hearts of hardened, angry outlaws, men and women who had already lost everything. 

But Arthur was different. Arthur had been the only one who tried. 

There had been an uproar when they’d finally brought him back to camp, everybody looking to Dutch for an explanation, for answers. 

When the initial shock at seeing the body faded, most had been furious. Sadie had been the first to speak up, brought to tears for the first time since she’d lost her husband, grabbing Arthur by the shirt like she could still wake him up. 

_ “I said I wouldn’t lose anyone else,”  _ she’d said, anger overpowered by grief. Hosea’s heart had ripped in two when she looked to Dutch.  _ “You promised you’d bring him home.”  _

Abigail had taken her by the shoulders, gently guiding her away from the watching crowd.  _ “He is home,”  _ Hosea had heard her say , before leading Sadie inside and shutting the door.

John planned on taking his family and leaving, and Hosea wouldn’t be surprised if Sadie ended up following. This wasn’t her fight. And the way things were going, the uneasy dread Arthur’s death brought, running almost seemed like the best option. 

Most of the others had been rendered silent. He’d never seen Sean so quiet, Bill so confused, or Javier so furious. They’d all looked up to Arthur, whether they would admit it or not. He’d been their brother. Unbreakable. Dutch’s son. 

Arthur Morgan dying should have been impossible. He wasn’t supposed to leave. Not so soon, and not from something like this. He’d been the only reason any of them had made it this far. 

They’d buried him the dawn of the next day, the gang gathered on the mountainside, saying their quiet farewells, thanking him, sharing what they never could when he was still breathing. 

Reverend Swanson promised Dutch that Arthur was in a better place. The other man didn’t even spare him a glance. 

“It was his time,” Javier said at some point, the mountain nearly empty as people gradually made their way back home. “I talked to him. He knew it was coming.” 

Hosea managed a sad smile. Arthur had accepted it long before anyone else, working to make peace. And he’d been surrounded with denial. Denial and anger, keeping him from letting go, from escaping the pain. 

“I know.” 

“Were you with him?” Charles asked, low and quiet, standing a few paces away with his head tilted to the mound of replaced dirt. He finally looked up, hopefully, at the two men. 

Dutch nodded, finally breaking the silence he’d held since moving Arthur’s body. “Until the end.” 

Charles seemed to relax at that, gaze softening. “That was all he wanted. He loved you. Both of you. He’d...want you to be ok.” 

Hosea said nothing, eyes glued to the words on the tombstone, carved so carefully into the dark, polished wood. He heard Dutch take a breath, exhaustion seeping into the gratitude laced in his voice.

“Thank you, Mr. Smith.”  

There were no more words after that, none of Dutch’s usual, empty promises or reassurances, no speeches or orders to stay strong, to keep going. Dutch wouldn’t ask his men to feel hopeful when he couldn’t even pretend to do so himself. 

But Charles nodded, and with one last lingering glance to the grave, backed away to where his horse was waiting. Javier looked like he wanted to say something- either to the living or the dead- but he decided against it, turning to follow the other man. 

The mountain fell silent, the void filled only by quiet breathing and the gentle breeze. Hosea, planted at Dutch’s side, wanted desperately to reach out to him, to offer any sort of comfort, but he found himself frozen, still struggling to stay afloat in his own grief. 

He felt eyes on him, watching him from behind, and Hosea sighed, once again setting aside his own sorrow for the time being. 

“John,” he said, hearing the footsteps of the younger man draw closer. He didn’t need to turn to see the guilt and horror etched on his face. 

“I should have stayed,” John said. “If I was there, I could have...I shouldn’t have left him. I’m so sorry, I didn’t--” 

“He would have died whether you were there or not,” Dutch said, voice cracked and weak, impossibly heartbroken. Hosea hadn’t seen him like this since Annabelle. “It ain’t your fault, son.” 

“Did you talk to your family?” Hosea asked, remembering the desperation of Arthur’s dying request. 

“I did,” John said, followed by an uneasy beat of silence. “I don’t...I don't  _ want  _ to leave you, but we--” 

“You ain’t leaving us, John,” Dutch said, running a hand over his unshaven face. “You...you’re starting a life. The life you, and everyone else in this gang deserves. But you’ve got a son to worry about. Arthur wasn’t going to let you die because of me, and neither am I.” 

John nodded, eyes on the ground, pulling nervously at his sleeves. “Thank you.” 

“I ain’t abandoning you,” Dutch promised. “I’m getting you, Abigail, and Jack on a train with as much money as we can spare. I’m getting you and your family somewhere safe and out of this goddamn mess I made.” 

Some of the tightness around Hosea’s chest finally loosened, the lump growing in his throat at Dutch’s words. It was a promise he knew the man had every intention of keeping. 

“Before Arthur...before I left, he said...he said he was worried you wouldn’t let me go.” 

Dutch took a breath, tilting his head as he stared at the grave, like he was having one last silent discussion with the man beneath it, like he saw something Hosea couldn’t. 

“I don’t blame him,” he said, finally looking away to meet John’s eyes. “He was worried about a lot of things. I should have listened to him.” 

“It’s not too late.” John stepped back, stuffing his hands in his pockets. “Just...just don’t forget him. You can still fix things, Dutch. Just like you always have.” 

And with that, he was gone, following the others down the mountain to prepare to say his own goodbyes. Things would change, Hosea knew, both for the worse and better. 

He turned to Dutch, studying his face, searching for any kind of opening. For the first time, he was at a loss of what to do, what to say, how to get through to the other man. 

For years, he’d been able to read Dutch like a book. Hosea had been one of the few people he’d listened to, who understood him. But neither of them had ever lost a son before. Neither knew where to go from here.

“He was always at my side, wasn’t he?” Dutch asked, so quiet Hosea almost didn’t hear. “He was always there and I wasn’t...I- I never--” 

“Dutch.” Hosea finally reached out and took Dutch’s hand in his own, pulling them both back to earth. “He knew.” 

They stayed like that, silent and unmoving, content to pretend they were the only two men left in the world. Dutch squeezed his hand and Hosea, suddenly knowing exactly what they both needed, squeezed back.

Hosea was still here. Broken as they both were, they hadn’t lost each other just yet. 

“We’ll be ok,” he promised, knowing Dutch heard the lie the moment the words left his mouth. He shook his head, tightening his hold on Hosea’s hand. 

“No, we won’t.”

“No,” Hosea agreed, eyes falling once again to the ground where his son had been left to rot away. “But we’ll try. For him.” 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The end! This was the longest Red Dead story I've written and I really loved doing something a little different, especially with this last chapter.   
> I will be traveling all of July, but I will hopefully still have some writing time. Until I'm back home I'll probably only be working on one shot and shorter stories, but there will still be lots of whump coming!  
> Thank you all for reading and commenting, I hope you enjoyed!

**Author's Note:**

> First chapter is a bit shorter than usual, but a lot of you suggested this prompt and I've been meaning to get to it for a while!  
> I love not writing Micah wow


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